


The Countess and the Common Man

by hopeless_eccentric



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Nonbinary Juno Steel, Other, Reunions, Robin Hood AU, Sheriff of Nottingham Juno Steel, Thief Peter Nureyev, characters and relationships will update, eat the rich, flirting through sword fights, loosely. look i didnt feel like rewatching it just to write a podcast fanfic, princess brideish vibes, the ruby 7 is a horse and it is EXPLICITLY not green
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25967089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_eccentric/pseuds/hopeless_eccentric
Summary: Most of the time Juno dueled someone, one or both of them ended up injured and bleeding and largely regretting the entire encounter. A cold ice filled his veins and drew his hand tight around the grip of his sword. For Juno, duels were life or death, and more often than not, the source of his patchwork of scars.There was something different about dueling Rex Glass, the Nameless Thief. He was unsure if Glass fought everyone like this, but skill and ease walked hand in hand as his blade twirled and crashed against Juno’s. It seemed he was far more interested in showing off than he was in actually killing his opponent.Updating daily!!
Relationships: Buddy Aurinko/Vespa Ilkay, Juno Steel & Vespa (Penumbra Podcast), Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, Rita & Juno Steel
Comments: 118
Kudos: 144





	1. Sword Flirting

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Anastasia. I'm gay what did you expect. All the fighting in this is just flirting with swords
> 
> Content warnings for a sword fight, some minor violence, some minor lies, blood mention, murder mention, theft

Juno couldn’t see much of his opponent, and was much too preoccupied with the sword tip pressed into his throat to try for a good look. However, even in the low light of early evening, he could make out dark and piercing eyes behind the thief’s mask. 

“I thought the infamous Nameless Thief might fight like a gentleman,” Juno bit, voice going high when the blade got a little friendlier with his carotid. “Not sneak up on me like an asshole.”

“Looking for a proper duel, are we, Sheriff?” the thief said as his lips curved into a grin. Perhaps it was the presence of the mask, or perhaps it was just Juno’s wishful thinking, but the expression seemed to flicker with a kind of dark excitement that made his pulse double. 

“Cut the ‘sheriff’ bullshit. I’ve got a name,” Juno growled. He had a little more air to speak as the sword lowered, instead tapping on the collar of his shirt absentmindedly. 

As concealed as the thief was behind a mask of shadow and a mask of leather, it was clear he conducted himself with an air of ease. The thief held one hand behind his back in a lazy approximation of a fencer’s stance and his grip on his sword was haphazard at best. Either a single easy blow could end Juno’s life if he tried to run, or perhaps, the thief didn’t intend on killing him at all. 

“My dear sheriff, I do apologize,” the thief said loftily. “But it seems you haven’t given me any other name to call you by. I could call you the Sheriff of Nottingham, if you prefer titles—”

“No,” Juno cut him off. “It’s Juno Steel.”

“Juno,” the thief murmured, as if he were feeling the shape of the word in his mouth, rather than speaking it. “What a lovely name.”

“And what can I call you?”

The thief stepped out of the shadow of a nearby parapet and Juno felt his heart stop. Even with some of his face obscured, the golden light of the setting sun anointed his dark hair like a halo around the head of an angel in a tapestry. Like these beings, he seemed drawn from an adoring hand, from his soft face to the long and languid lines of his form. 

Unlike those angels, his teeth were just sharp enough to remind Juno he was dangerous. Juno wished he minded that more. 

Only when Juno felt his back slam against the stone wall behind him did he realize he had entirely missed his chance to escape. From the hungry grin now eating him alive, he assumed the thief had realized it as well.

The forearm pressing him against the wall of the Lord’s chateau killed Juno’s window of escape, but the feeling of the thief’s words fluttering against his neck and his hips pinning his legs back had Juno paralyzed enough already. 

“Call me Rex Glass,” the thief grinned, sharp teeth bared inches from Juno’s neck. 

“We both know that’s not your name,” Juno huffed, his nervous laugh borne from more than just the swordplay prowess of his opponent. 

“I’m not an idiot, Juno,” Glass chuckled. “You’re not getting the Nameless Thief’s name that easily.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“It’s a pity, but I suppose you’ll never live to find it out,” Rex sighed. 

“You must be fun at parties,” Juno snorted.

“Pretty and funny. You’re quite the company, my dear sheriff,” Glass thought aloud. “It’s a shame I have to kill you.”

“Huh. It’s a shame I have to die.”

The thief hesitated for a moment as his mouth fell tight and his gaze fell onto Juno’s lips. Juno could unpack what all that meant later. He threw the thief off of him with a well-placed kick and grabbed for his sword while Rex was still righting himself. 

“Fighting dirty, are we? I thought you wanted a gentlemen’s duel,” Glass teased, blade catching Juno’s before Juno could even consider striking. 

“Hell no,” Juno laughed. He struck. 

Most of the time Juno dueled someone, one or both of them ended up injured and bleeding and largely regretting the entire encounter. A cold ice filled his veins and drew his hand tight around the grip of his sword. For Juno, duels were life or death, and more often than not, the source of his patchwork of scars. 

There was something different about dueling Rex Glass, the Nameless Thief. He was unsure if Glass fought everyone like this, but skill and ease walked hand in hand as his blade twirled and crashed against Juno’s. It seemed he was far more interested in showing off than he was in actually killing his opponent. 

Juno certainly couldn’t complain about that, especially not with the way Rex’s loose, low shirt collar danced in tandem with his movements. If he squinted, Juno could almost make out a bead of sweat lazing over his collarbone and sliding lower and lower until it disappeared altogether behind the lacing. 

“Juno, I must say,” the thief laughed after some time. The sound was like the ringing of a bell, made even sweeter by the percussion of clashing swords on either side of it. “You are quite terrible at catching thieves. You could have killed me thrice by now.”

“Yeah, you’re not too great at gutting sheriffs, either,” Juno snorted, pausing for Glass to execute a particularly impressive turn. Juno caught his blade and parried a few more times before making a lunge of his own. 

“I have half a mind to think you don’t actually want to kill me,” Rex mused. 

“I don’t,” Juno returned. “You just looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

Glass didn’t lower his sword, but his smile faltered. 

“Why should I believe you?” Rex demanded, words broken by his strikes and Juno’s parries as the duel became faster and faster. Juno stepped out of the way when Glass charged, throwing him off for long enough that Juno could rest his lungs. 

“Because I hate the King as much as you do, okay? I got the job so I could let people like you in,” Juno gasped, one hand falling to his knee as he caught his breath. He glanced up to see Rex staring at him, sword forgotten at his side. 

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“My dear, are your lungs going to be okay?” Glass interjected before Juno could press further. 

“Yeah, yeah, I just haven’t dueled somebody decent in a while,” Juno chuckled. He stood up to lean against the wall. “I try to only catch the ones stealing something the royals are gonna miss. I don’t care what they take, so long as nobody notices it’s gone.”

“You’re an enigma, Sheriff Steel,” Rex mused. 

“Just a lady with a moral code,” Juno returned. “You’ve got what you wanted from the Lord, right?”

“Of course.”

“Nothing big?” 

“A few brooches and an exorbitant sum of money,” the thief smiled, giving a nod towards a sack discarded against the chateau’s wall. 

“Great,” Juno said. “Now can you get back to trying to stab me?”

“Beg pardon?” 

Juno fisted his hand in the thief’s shirt and in one fluid moment, whirled him around into the wall. Rex laughed, as if the impact had forced the sound from deep within his chest. 

“You’re enjoying this. I’m enjoying this. Why don’t we? Just a little friendly competition.”

“Friendly indeed,” Glass purred, smiling as if the words were as sweet as honey on his lips. “You’re not trying to propose anything untoward, are you? I have a few orphan houses to visit in the dead of night, and unfortunately, I can’t spend my entire night doing swordplay with lovely ladies.”

“Was that a goddamned pun?”

“I don’t know, Juno,” Rex grinned, breaking off to push his opponent away with the same swift kick Juno had utilized mere minutes before. “Do you want it to be?”

“You’re insufferable,” Juno laughed, blade already flying to meet Rex’s. 

“I’m rather inclined to think that you like it,” Glass teased. 

Juno hadn’t ever considered himself much of a dancer, even if he had been told he was good. He tried to avoid attending the King’s balls and galas at any costs, half to avoid the royals and half to spare himself the pain of finding a dance partner who wasn’t trying to court him. He much preferred the kind of dance where one’s partner was two blades away, twisting and jabbing and spinning to the percussion of metal on metal and shifting, shuffling feet. 

He could see himself dancing with Rex Glass, whether it be with their blades singing as sunset shifted into night or to the chorus of lutes and harps and trumpets. Their duel was more alike to dancing than it was a fight at this point, both pausing to allow the other to show off and both holding their gazes insistently on each other’s lips and necks and heaving chests. 

It was a particularly dirty kick to the back of the knee that brought Rex down at last, though he didn’t go down without dragging Juno with him. As such, the pair ended up pressed together on the grass, chests heaving with exertion and laughter. 

“I didn’t exactly take you for the chivalrous type, but that was a low blow, my dear,” Glass teased. 

“Never was too much of a gentleman myself,” Juno snorted. Rex beamed back up at him.

“Do you mind freeing my arm? I’d like to take my mask off.”

Juno raised an eyebrow, but sat up nonetheless. He felt his face grow hot when he had to lock his legs around Rex’s hips for support, even if it was just to keep himself balanced. Glass chuckled, and Juno assumed he had seen the blush. 

With his sword forgotten at his side, Juno reached to help Glass undo the ties of the mask. Rex smiled and let his hands fall away as Juno’s shaking fingers began to work on the knots, each burning with the touch whenever they brushed against the soft and lovely curve of his face. 

When Juno pulled the mask away, he felt his jaw drop. 

“Like what you see, my dearest?” Rex laughed. Juno sputtered. 

“It’s nice, that’s all,” he barely managed. 

“Quite the poet,” Glass smiled warmly. The expression sat crookedly on his face, closed behind lips that looked impossibly soft up close. It was almost more intimate to see an imperfect smile than it was to see that hungry grin from earlier. 

“Do you mind if I—” Juno offered, gesturing vaguely at where his hair had fallen out of place.

“Do you fix the hair of every crown traitor you pin to the ground, or just the ones who make your heart do acrobatics?” Rex chuckled. 

“Shut up,” Juno snorted. He was halfway to carding a hand through Glass’s dark and glossy hair when he felt his back hit the ground and a pair of hands pinning down his wrists. 

“Asshole,” he chuckled, giving Glass a teasing shove. 

“My goodness, Juno,” Rex teased. “If I knew how lovely you looked down there, I would have done this far sooner.”

“You’re a dick,” Juno laughed. 

“I have a feeling you secretly enjoy it,” Glass mused. 

“And what gives you that idea?”

The thief fixed him with a grin brighter than every pinprick star that swirled in the great darkening void above him. 

“No other lawman has this much fun while trying to duel me,” Glass chuckled, hands falling away from Juno’s wrists so he could lower himself a little closer, chin resting on Juno’s chest. 

Juno wondered vaguely if Rex could feel his pounding heart. 

“Yeah, yeah, you got me. You’ve won. What’s next?”

Glass’s smile melted into something so soft and gentle it was difficult to look at, regardless of its beauty. Juno felt like he was staring into the sunrise just making eye contact. 

“Can I kiss you?” Rex asked, all the haughty confidence melted from his voice. Juno wondered if he was talking to Rex Glass anymore, or if the name was just another mask the thief above him was shedding away. 

“Go for it.”

Rex kissed him, soft and slow and as if the world’s axis was the point at which their lips met. He had no mind for anything but the thief’s hands, one on his face and the other holding him close by the small of the back. 

Juno still held his mask in his hand, pressed into the soft crown of hair he never had the chance to fix before Glass pinned him to the ground. It was hard to mind that with the Nameless Thief worshipping at his lips like an altar and holding him close like a lifeline. 

What struck him as truly odd was how gentle the touch was, even after so violent and tense a fight. Rex held him like any moment he might shatter and when they were forced to part, looked at him like all the twinkling galaxies above had been placed in his eyes. 

“Juno,” the thief breathed when a tragic need for air forced their lips to hover mere inches apart once more. 

“Rex.”

Glass got a strange look across his face, then swallowed. 

“Peter Nureyev,” he corrected. 

“Is that—”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Juno murmured. The thief just kissed his forehead. 

A silence hung in the air after that, though it was not an unkind one. Peter Nureyev let his hand continue to rest on Juno’s face, tracing scars with his thumb. 

“The world can be so cruel sometimes,” he mused. Juno braced for a comment about his eyepatch, but found himself surprised as Nureyev continued on. “In a kinder world, I might sit with you here forever.”

“Don’t get sappy on me,” Juno huffed. 

“I want you to write to me. I know where to find you, and I’ll send my own bird, but I want you to promise that you’ll write back,” Nureyev said, just as soft as ever. 

“I promise.”

“Good,” Nureyev returned, and with a sigh like it broke his heart to do so, he stood up. “I’m afraid there are orphanages I must attend to this evening. I must away.”

“Yeah,” Juno breathed, head still spinning from that kiss and the feeling of Peter Nureyev against him as he got to his feet and sheathed his sword once more. Before he could try to find any other words, Nureyev had taken his hand. 

“Until we meet again, my lady,” he smiled, bowing to press his lips against the top of Juno’s hand. 

“You know,” Juno started, a laugh lining his voice. “Usually I’m sick to hell of people acting like gentlemen. I think you just might be the first one I’ve been able to tolerate.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Peter laughed, giving his hand one last squeeze. 

“You should.”

“Take care of yourself, Juno,” Nureyev insisted as he left, though he walked as if every step away caused him a pang of physical pain. 

“Don’t let yourself get caught again,” Juno called back. Even in the dark, he could still see Peter’s shining grin as he climbed onto his white mare and began to ride away towards the dark and distant line of Sherwood Forest.


	2. Ambidextrous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep an eye out for some not-so-vague references and the worst joke I've ever put into a story!
> 
> Content warnings for blood, minor injury, stabbing, swordplay, essentially handcuffing

“And then he kissed me.”

Rita spat her drink back into her cup. 

“He kissed you?” 

“Shh, the whole tavern doesn’t need to know,” Juno insisted, leaning a little closer across the table towards his roommate. “Yeah. He—uh—yeah.”

“And then what?” Rita pressed, raising an eyebrow. 

“Don’t get excited. He had to go give everything to an orphanage or two, he couldn’t just stick around all night,” Juno sighed. He didn’t mean to sound half as heartbroken as he did, but Rita must have caught the wistful look in his eye. 

“Aww, Mistah Steel, that’s so nice!” Rita beamed, her lunch all but forgotten. “That’s just so darn romantic! Like in this one ballad I heard where there was a lady and a farm boy and he has to go away but she thinks he got killed by pirates and then she has to marry this awful prince guy so she’d kind of a princess now which is fun but she doesn’t wanna get married so it’s not fun—”

“Rita, what does this have to do with what happened last night?” Juno groaned, though he felt the corner of his mouth twitch affectionately. 

“I’m gettin’ there, Mistah Steel! You just gotta let me finish,” Rita protested. 

Juno finished the last remaining dregs of his ale and set it back down on the table. 

“How ‘bout you keep telling me about this—” he paused for a moment. “Princess bride—outside?”

“Sounds good to me, boss,” Rita shrugged, standing to help Juno in his efforts to clear off the table. 

“You know, you don’t have to call me that anymore,” Juno chuckled. “I haven’t been your boss since I was the shift manager at that bar we both used to work at.”

“Sometimes a name just sticks, Mistah Steel.”

“Fair point.”

“Speakin’ of names,” Rita started as the pair stepped from the dusty light of the tavern into the sunny town square. “You ain’t even told me what to call that gentleman of yours.”

“He’s not my gentleman—”

“Well, would you rather I said ‘favorite criminal?’”

“Fine. My ‘gentleman’ kinda prefers people don’t know his name. That’s kinda his whole thing. He did tell me to call him Rex Glass when I asked the first time, though,” Juno returned. “Shame I can’t take him somewhere like here. They managed to get his face for a wanted poster, even if the artists can’t draw a nose to save their lives.”

“Alrighty. So did anything else happen with you and Mistah Glass?” Rita asked, hands in the pockets she kept tied around the waist of her dress as she walked. 

“I mean, I already told you about the name thing,” Juno started, breaking off for a moment. His face had gone hot without warning, and he sincerely doubted it was from the sudden heat of the sun. “He—uh—he kissed my hand, and he said he’d write.”

“Mistah Steel!” Rita exclaimed, clapping her hand over her mouth. 

“Yeah,” he began, unable to help a shaky laugh. “It was really nice.”

“And he said he’d write for sure?”

“He made me promise to, so I should hope so,” Juno smiled.

“Mistah Glass sounds like he makes you really happy,” Rita sighed, as if watching a romantic play unfold right before her. “I’m so happy for you, Mistah Steel.”

“Don’t start writing wedding invitations just yet,” Juno snorted, though he couldn’t help but admit she was right. He’d felt particularly warm, particularly fuzzy, and particularly stupid ever since their last meeting. His mind had spent the last twelve hours split between racing in excited circles and lazing over the same thought. 

Even though the sunlight was dazzling where it graced the rooftops of the town and the clear blue sky was as lovely a backdrop as any to the buzzing marketplace before him, his eyes had not tarried from a blank, distant point. There were a thousand things to look at, from hand sewn gowns to newly smithed swords to a dozen different types of fish all loaded into a cart, but he had yet to pull his mind away from Peter Nureyev. 

“I’ll get exactly as excited as I want, thank you!” Rita protested, though Juno could tell it was a joke. “Anyway, about that princess—”

Juno could have spent forever in that moment, his best friend at his side rambling about the plot of a ballad he had probably heard about once or twice before and the marketplace of his home town all around him. Even if he had already heard some vague approximation of this story, in which the farm boy was actually the dreaded pirate all along and he and his band of former villains saved the lady from the evil prince, Juno didn’t really mind. 

Rita’s face always lit up when she dove into a summary, hands gesturing as if she were performing with invisible sock puppets. She told the stories better than the minstrels and bards, in Juno’s opinion. On a calm day with nowhere else to be and nothing going on, there was nothing better to do than go on a stroll through the market and listen to one. 

“And then the pirate guy says that he’s been building up an immunity to iocane powder, and—” Rita was broken off by a shout that stopped Juno in his tracks. 

“Hey, it’s that thief! He’s got a sword!”

Juno froze, then sighed, that glowing patch of paradise shattered by the prospect of work.

“Go get your man,” Rita encouraged, giving Juno a hearty slap on the back that brought him back to the present. 

“Get as in ‘arrest’ or get as in ‘get?’”

“Get,” Rita clarified. 

Juno groaned. 

“Outta my way, sheriff coming through!” Juno called, shoving through the crowd in pursuit of the commotion. 

At the center of the square, a cheerful fountain bubbled away, singing a low and soft song. A few feet in front of it, an unmasked Peter Nureyev was being held in place by a handful of the palace guards stationed throughout the town in the castle’s immediate proximity. 

“Good work, ladies. I’ll take him in. Take the rest of the day off, enjoy the weather. If the Captain of the Guard complains, tell them to take it up with me,” Juno ordered, unsheathing his sword as he spoke. 

As the guards dispersed, Nureyev’s lip twitched, as if he was holding back a smile. 

“If you’re gonna get caught, make sure it’s by me,” Juno grumbled, sword still at Nureyev’s neck as he helped him to his feet. “You’re coming back to the private cell and escaping tonight, understand?”

“My dear sheriff,” Nureyev grinned like a cat about to sink its teeth into a canary. Unlike Juno, he was speaking loud enough to be heard by the gathered crowd. “You seem to be under the false impression that I am going to come quietly at all.”

Juno parried the sword before he so much as felt Nureyev twitch. Nureyev clearly wasn’t expecting such a knee-jerk reaction, for his blade, thrown off, tore the loose white fabric of Juno’s shirtsleeve. After a few moments, a blooming red stain joined the marring on the sleeve. 

“Just a scratch,” Juno retorted. As much as the mocking tone was for the crowd, his words held a second message. He was okay, and there was no need to worry, at least for the time being. 

The injury throbbed, but Nureyev didn’t need to know that as long as it wasn’t causing Juno any real need for concern. His arm pulsed, hot and painful, like an injury far deeper than the scratch he had insisted it to be, but Juno had no intentions of looking at the mark any time soon. Bloodloss made him queasy, especially when it was his own. 

“Pity,” Nureyev teased. The return of the smile to his face was an affirmation of understanding, and eased the twisting of Juno’s gut, as little as it helped his stinging arm. An onlooker wouldn’t have been able to tell his tone was affectionate, but it made Juno’s face flush nonetheless. 

Juno hadn’t the time to think about his open blushing during what was supposed to be a sword fight to the death before he was broken off by a sudden laugh of realization. 

“You’re fighting left handed,” he started. “You’re not left handed.”

“You’re injured, my dear sheriff,” Peter insisted, jumping up onto the stone rim of the fountain for the high ground. Juno knew he was messing with him, as much as he was also trying to give the appearance of a difficult duel. “It’s only gentlemanly of me to fight fair.”

“Means a lot coming from a thief,” Juno snorted. 

“A thief with morals, darling.”

Juno rolled his eyes, then tossed his sword into his left hand as well. 

“You’re ambidextrous,” Nureyev all but cackled, though the sound was broken by the clanging of metal on metal. It made Juno’s heart leap nonetheless. 

“Yeah, gender isn't really something I’m concerned about with a partner,” Juno shrugged, breaking off to spin and parry a strike above his head that he guaranteed Nureyev had set up just so he could show off. “Why are you bringing that up now?”

“No, your left hand, I—” Peter broke off with a very disappointed sigh. 

Juno didn’t have a response for that. As easy and frankly fun as dueling had been the night before, Nureyev was beginning to blur in his vision and the joints in his legs had started to betray him. He could keep up the duel for a little longer, but he worried his stomach might give out next when he felt blood trickling onto his wrist. 

“Juno, you’re bleeding horribly,” Nureyev hissed, face having fallen while Juno switched hands again to give his injured arm a break. 

“I’m fine,” Juno insisted between gritted teeth. “It’s nothing.”

“You’ve just about ruined your shirt—”

“I’ve gotten blood out of worse,” he grimaced, though his knees buckled before he could say something particularly consoling to the gathered crowd. Vaguely, he thought he heard people gasping. When he felt Nureyev’s arms close around him and lift, he heard someone scream. 

“You’re delirious, Juno,” Nureyev murmured. 

“Anyone ever told you how pretty you are when you’re trying to stab me?” Juno chuckled, eyes half-closed and mind starting to drift a million miles away. He was somewhat aware of being lifted onto a horse. In the distance, the shouting of a panicking crowd and pursuing guards grew quieter and quieter. 

“I’m sure I’ll pester you about it when you’re in your right mind again,” Nureyev said, though his tone had gone stiff. “I’m going to have to tie your hands to avoid suspicion. Are you okay with that?”

“I’ll try anything once.”

“I need a yes or no, love,” Peter pressed. Juno felt the terrain below change, and could only assume they were nearing the forest. As much as he wanted to tear his eyes away from Nureyev and look around, his vision was swimming, and the man holding onto him like a lifeline was the one static thing he could see. 

“Yes.” 

“Alright then. Ruby, take us home,” Nureyev said, knotting a rope around Juno’s wrists. “Is that too tight?”

“‘M fine,” Juno murmured. 

“Stay with me, dear.”

“If I pass out and you let me fall off,” Juno started, leaning a little closer into Nureyev’s grip, warm and tight and seeming like more and more of a comfortable place to sleep by the second. “I’m gonna stab you for real.”

“I’m sure of it, my darling,” Nureyev returned. It almost sounded like he was smiling, though there was a tension in his voice Juno had never heard before. 

“Are you technically kidnapping me?”

Peter went quiet for a moment, while Juno let out a delirious laugh. 

“I suppose so,” he finally smiled. “I am a career criminal, after all.”

“Shit,” Juno realized. “The search party.”

“Do I need to worry about that?”

“No,” Juno sighed. “I’m in charge of search parties. This is gonna be a logistical nightmare.”

Juno was glad he heard Nureyev finally coaxed into a laugh before the world around him went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I be proud or disappointed in that ambidextrous joke? 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Make sure to SMASH that kudos button and leave a comment down below or I'll steal all your socks
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric !!


	3. Dahlias and Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one.........somft. Also props to anyone who got far enough into the Lusty Argonian Maid to catch that CURSED reference. I know it's like one page in but knowing that book.....it's a lot
> 
> Content warnings for mentions of injury and blood

Juno awoke to the sound of a crackling fire and the soothing feeling of fingers in his hair, alternating between long, gentle strokes and rubbing little circles into his scalp. Eyes still shut, he hummed. 

“Juno,” someone breathed, as if the word were a prayer, rather than name. 

“Mornin’,” Juno grumbled. He made an attempt to sit up, but a hand pressed him back into the mattress before his head had time to start spinning. 

“Don’t strain yourself,” someone he now recognized to be Peter Nureyev, his publicly sworn enemy, said. “You’ve had quite the few hours, darling.”

“Where—”

“Home,” Nureyev answered with a soft smile, gesturing around at what Juno now registered as a cottage, barely big enough for one person. A large pot sat over a merrily crackling hearthfire in the corner, serving as the lighting for most of the room. Though a window sat at his bedside, the curtains and shutters had been drawn tight, so he could not discern the hour. 

Juno had spent his entire life being warned of the forest and the thieves and murderers within, but as far as he could see, the scene around him was a tapestry, woven by hand from little strings of heaven. 

The scene was made complete by Peter Nureyev at his bedside, bent forward to rest his elbows upon his knees in his harsh wooden chair. He didn’t sit so much as he perched, shifty and tense and ready to take flight at a moment’s notice. Juno couldn’t entirely tell if he was nervous about the barely aching injury on Juno’s arm or if that was just Nureyev’s baseline demeanor. 

“Is this your bed?” Juno asked, still too tired to think of a better question. He propped himself up on his elbows, Nureyev’s gentle, featherlike touch guiding him all the way, just in case he should fall. To his surprise, his wounded arm held his weight without more than a protesting twinge. 

“Yes. My apologies—I don’t have another one, and I was rather worried about your state,” Peter began to explain, but Juno silenced him with a shake of the head. 

“No, that’s not—” Juno broke off with a sigh. “I just wanted to make sure you had somewhere to sleep, that’s all.”

Nureyev grinned at him as if the sentence had been a love letter. Even still waking up, Juno couldn’t miss the beat his heart skipped. 

“I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. I had things to attend to,” he explained, unable to shake that dazzling smile even as he pressed forward. 

“What, did you rob anybody while I was out?” Juno snorted. 

“You wound me, sheriff,” Nureyev said. His voice wore faux-offense like a fur robe. “Take a look at your arm. Wrapped, stitched, and medicated. Give it a week’s rest, and you’ll be good as new.”

“A week?”

“Yes, Juno,” Peter huffed. “Haven’t you ever heard of taking a break? It’s quite the pastime. I think you would rather enjoy it.”

Juno paused in rolling his eyes to glance down at his arm, which lay bare against the sheets. The wrappings didn’t look as professional as the ones he had become accustomed to from the castle’s surgeon, but they were clean and tight nonetheless. 

“Shit, were you a doctor before turning to crime?” Juno said, unable to help a shaky smile when Nureyev chuckled. 

“I’m afraid not, my dear. My—” he broke off, face darkening as he searched for the word. “My mentor put a high value on self-sufficiency. I am passable at most things. Speaking of that matter, I’ve mended your shirt. It’s hanging out to dry.”

Juno would’ve believed Nureyev could do anything. It was stupid to feel that way, especially after hardly a day of sharing his company, but even under his guise of composure, genuine worry twitched at his fingers and the corners of his eyes. His face flickered like a candle, dancing between that bright and dangerous grin and something soft that bloomed across his eyes and mouth whenever he looked too long at Juno’s arm or the discarded, bloody bandages beside the bed. 

He couldn’t help his eyes trailing onto a loose curl that had fallen from Nureyev’s crown of hair. He hadn’t expected his hair to be anything less than neat, but then again, the man dressed to kill regardless of impracticality. However, Peter wore the same doublet he had worn the day before, though the collar was off-center and displayed more of his shoulder than his chest. 

It was frankly, rather charming. 

“You know,” Juno started after a pause, eyes still fixed on all those little imperfections that made his pulse double. “This is a hell of a way to say you’re sorry. You could’ve just left me there, you know. I would’ve been fine, and the knights wouldn’t be out hunting your head.”

Nureyev sighed, gracing Juno with an impossibly fond look. With the way his head spun in response, he would have thought he was suffering from blood loss again. 

“Would you believe me if I said I just felt terrible about the whole occasion?” 

“Or were you just embarrassed you got caught and had to have the last laugh?” Juno teased. 

“Juno, I would never—” Nureyev began, only to be cut off by Juno’s chuckle. 

Juno thought he was handsome enough wearing concern or joy, but even this adoring offense was as sweet a vision as the gold light of the fireplace. 

“Aren’t I allowed to be concerned about my lady friend?” Peter sighed, though it seemed Juno’s laugh was contagious. Juno liked the way genuine laughter, rather than a taunting chuckle, sounded in his voice. It rang out like a bell in the little one-room cottage, soft and musical. 

“‘Lady friend’ is a nice way of putting it,” Juno snorted. “Do you dote on all your ‘lady friends’ like this, or just the friends you’ve kissed?”

“Well, what else would you like me to call you? I can’t go around calling you my acquaintance. You’ve spent the last day in my bed, though under rather unfortunate circumstances,” Nureyev returned. 

“How about the lady you’re courting?” Juno asked before he could shut himself up. His heart pounded in his throat before he could so much as finish his sentence, doubt prickling the back of his mind like a thorn on a rose’s stem. 

Nureyev raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you sure you’re no longer in any kind of mental distress?” he asked, though it seemed as if he was furiously attempting to put down a smile. It twitched the corners of his mouth stubbornly nonetheless. “Not losing blood again, are you?

“Is that a no?”

“No—” Nureyev broke off with a sigh and reached to squeeze Juno’s hand. “Only if this is what you want. I understand our lines of work have a tendency to cross paths in unpleasant ways.”

Juno snorted. 

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Until I wounded your arm,” Nureyev returned. Something bitter arose in his voice, and though his eyes met Juno’s, he could tell that Peter Nureyev was a million miles away, and likely, years in the past. 

“And you patched it up, which you didn’t have to do,” Juno said, and squeezed Peter’s hand in turn, if just to ground him in the present once more. 

Nureyev swallowed, and Juno suspected the touch did the trick. With Nureyev’s gaze on him like that and those warm, deft fingers clutching his own like a lifeline, Juno felt he could have plucked the stars from the sky above by hand. 

“If you’ll have me,” Peter started after an aching, silent pause. “Then yes.”

“Yeah. I think that’d be nice,” he breathed after a moment. When Nureyev broke into a beam, Juno knew for certain he’d be unable to add anything to his statement. This criminal, crown traitor, and wanted enemy of the state had stolen every single one of his words in the moment he took Juno’s heart in his hand. 

Thankfully, Nureyev killed both the silence and the gap between them with his lips. The kiss was brutally short, but the lingering of Nureyev’s hand on the side of his face and his dark, soft eyes on Juno’s lips was almost sweeter. 

Juno wished he could spend an eternity in that moment, though he supposed nothing heaven-sent could last for long. Nureyev pressed one last kiss to his forehead before pulling away to stand. 

“I’m afraid I’ve been quite the awful host, my dear. I haven’t even caught you up over what you missed in the last day,” he chortled. “Tea?”

“Sounds great.”

Nureyev’s head turned towards Juno for a moment too long while he walked over towards the teacups and he stubbed his toe against a table. Juno made a pitiful attempt at stifling a laugh. Peter glared. 

“I’m not used to being distracted. You’ve undone me, you brute.”

“Just doing my civic duty,” Juno snorted. 

Nureyev returned with two cups of tea, still too hot when he pressed one into Juno’s hands. 

“So, I believe you were on my horse when you lost consciousness, correct?” Nureyev started. 

“I think so.”

“Yes, well, the palace guard could only pursue so far into the forest. Ruby is quite the clever steed, you see. I’m giving her the day off, just for having to carry the both of us for all that time,” he explained. “I’ll have her take you home tomorrow morning. You deserve a day of rest, and besides, they’ll make the assumption that my safehaven is much farther away.”

“What about the search party?”

“No sign of one, as far as I can tell. I left for a short while to get you these,” he broke off to gesture to a vase of dahlias. “And even then, I didn’t see or hear anything unusual.”

“I told you it’d be a logistical nightmare,” Juno smiled. He started to stand, even though Nureyev protested until Juno found his footing. Even when he righted himself, Peter kept a feather-light hand on his shoulder, as if a breeze might send him toppling over. 

“You’re alright?”

“Legs still working, last time I checked,” he said. “Anything I can help with for all the trouble you went to?”

“Juno Steel, if you tear so much as one stitch, I’ll kidnap you again,” Nureyev threatened, though there was no true ire in his voice. 

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Juno sighed.

“I’m sure I could find something, if you’re that adamant,” Peter chuckled. 

“I can cook and clean alright, and I’ve been patching up my own clothes since I was old enough to hold a needle. It doesn’t really matter though. Hell, I can sit around and polish your sword all day, if that’s all you need me for,” Juno offered, face melting into a smoldering glare when Nureyev hid a laugh behind his fist. “Don’t give me that look.”

“I’m not laughing at anything,” Nureyev laughed.

“You’re so stupid,” Juno groaned. 

“Maybe you should think twice before saying that of the swordsman who’s bested you three times,” Peter teased. “If you’re that miserable just relaxing and resting your wounds, I can suggest you help me with laundry. It’s quite a nice day for it, after all.”

He strolled over to the window and opened the shudders, revealing a little green meadow flanked on every side by thick growths of deciduous trees and wildflowers of every shape, size, and color. They danced in the breeze like ribbons during a festival, save for a small patch plucked clean. Juno could only assume that patch of dahlias now lay in the vase at his bedside. 

“You know?” he started, eyes still trained on that quiet patch of paradise right outside the cottage walls. “I don’t think that sounds half bad.”

. . . 

Pleasantly sore from a day of the hardest labor Nureyev would allow, Juno let out a sigh as his back hit the bed once more. 

Nureyev, on the other hand, was attempting to stretch out both over a hard backed chair and under a blanket. While spring had brought the field alight with dazzling blooms, it was still close enough to winter that a chill through the window or door could keep one up all night. 

“You’re not seriously gonna try to sleep like that, right?” Juno asked as he watched Nureyev tangle and untangle himself in a futile search for comfort. 

“I’m not kicking you out of the bed, darling. You need your rest,” he protested. 

“There’s room for two.”

“I don’t want to crowd you, my love.”

Juno rolled his eyes. 

“Get over here and cuddle with me,” he ordered. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Nureyev laughed. 

The last time Juno appreciated just how much of his companion’s height was made up of sheer limb, the two of them had been pressed together and kissing through their laughter mere feet from a despotic lord’s chateau. Nureyev was now doing his best to take up as little room as possible in the one-person bed, limbs all curled in on themselves and wrapping around Juno like a very widespread, very worried ivy. 

“You’re warm,” Juno mumbled into Nureyev’s chest. A smile bloomed across his face when he felt the rumble of a chuckle, rather than hearing it. 

“And you’re probably exhausted, you delicate little thing. I told you I shouldn’t have let you help me with the laundry, especially in your condition,” Nureyev said, though his following sigh was cut off into a pleasant murmur when Juno’s lips met his. 

“Who the hell are you calling delicate?”

“You, dear. I barely stabbed you, and you passed out from blood loss in minutes,” Nureyev returned. He trailed off into the sweetest little yawn Juno might have heard in his entire life. 

“I don’t have a lot of blood,” he protested. 

“Nor do you have much self preservation, it seems.”

“I’m fine,” Juno huffed. 

“And I’m concerned. I’d better not hear you complaining about how sore your arm is tomorrow,” Peter teased. Juno yawned pointedly. 

“At least you won’t have to complain about how stiff your neck would’ve been if you slept in that damn thing,” he said, nodding his head towards the chair. His arms were long since trapped under Nureyev’s messy, though not unwelcome embrace. 

Peter sighed, though the sound was tinged with a laugh. 

“Must I see you off tomorrow? Can you not stay with me here forever?” he murmured, words soft and sweet as the last embers of the fire smoldered in the corner. Juno wished he could have answered him in affirmation. 

“Can’t have them suspecting anything,” Juno returned. He elbowed Nureyev to loosen his grip after a moment if only to turn over and lay his head atop Peter’s chest. “I’ll have to write to you, I guess.”

“The future can wait one night, I suppose,” Nureyev sighed, pressing a kiss into Juno’s hair. His voice rumbled low and sweet against Juno’s ear. For a moment, he let the semi-silence envelope him, one ear trained on the quiet of the cottage and the other on the sound of Nureyev’s slowing breathing and steady pulse. 

“And what’s the future hold for Peter Nureyev, huh?” he finally asked. Peter reached over to find his hand and lace their fingers together. 

“Hm. Plenty of Juno Steel, I’m hoping,” Nureyev mused.

“I meant what you’re planning on doing,” Juno clarified with a chuckle. 

“Again, plenty of Juno Steel.”

“You’re insufferable,” Juno laughed. Nureyev squeezed his hand. 

“If you’re truly wondering, I’m hoping to steal a piece from amongst the King’s favorite crown jewels. I don’t intend this heist to be subtle,” Peter explained. “I want this to be personal. I can’t get proper revenge for every life his taxes have ruined, but I can certainly cause him some level of rage.”

“What’s your plan?” Juno yawned. He certainly had complaints about it, notably how reckless it was, though the low and musical sound of Nureyev’s voice was coaxing him closer and closer to sleep. 

“Well, there’s this masked ball happening soon, and I thought that perhaps, I might be able to sneak in if I had a properly important Lady on my arm,” Nureyev mused. Juno could hear his smile where those words fluttered inches from the top of his head.

“Huh. Maybe I could be convinced. I’ve got an honorary title, after all. Tell me more about this mysterious masked gentleman of yours,” Juno said, his grin creeping into his voice. 

“Well, the Duke of County Rose has been in want of a wife for some time. He’s travelled many miles to arrive for this occasion and is hoping he might find his beloved in a palace as fine and funded by the overtaxing of the poor as this one,” Peter elaborated. Juno let out a pleasant sigh at the feeling of Nureyev’s fingers in his hair once more. 

“Maybe he’ll find it, if he comes and visits the Sheriff of Nottingham a few hours early,” Juno said, though his words bled into a yawn as sleep’s grip on him grew ever tighter. 

“Perhaps the Duke of Rose will find his dahlia,” Nureyev murmured. Juno felt his gaze shift towards the flowers on the bedside table and he couldn’t help a lazy grin blooming on his face. 

“Sounds nice,” Juno mumbled, eyes falling shut. 

“Goodnight, my love,” Nureyev whispered. His lips were still on Juno’s forehead when he drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not to toot my own horn but.....soft
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to SMASH that kudos button and leave a comment down below or I'll drop a piano on you looney toons style
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric !!


	4. Another Mask Behind You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for blood, stabbing, attempted murder, self sacrifice, mentioned starvation (it's one line), pursuit, minor self-hatred
> 
> I promise this isn't That Bad

“It’s been quite some time since I’ve had a lady on my arm like this,” Nureyev, or rather, the Duke of Rose mused as he led Juno into the gilded cathedral of a ballroom. 

The times they had met, Nureyev had been dressed like a rogue from a storybook, whether masked and sneaking out of a chateau or disheveled at the end of a half dozen swords. That wasn’t to say he didn’t look impressive. Each piece of clothing draped from him the way a robe draped atop the shoulders of an antique king, even when he was too concerned about Juno’s arm to care for his own appearance. 

The evening of the masked ball, however, he glittered like the very jewel he intended to steal. 

Juno had expected all black, or perhaps a little subtlety in the thief’s dress, but it seemed he resolved that the best disguise for hiding amongst the stars was to outshine every single one of them. Juno supposed he might have been biased, but objectively, the Duke of Rose seemed to float, rather than walk. 

It would be incorrect to say the Duke of Rose wore a gilded number of royal blue. Rather, a gilded number of royal blue anointed his shoulders, while embroidered gold and jewels reflected the light from his glowing smile the way sunlight dapples off of a lake. 

Juno had seen him masked twice already, though it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the mask was different, a gilded blue to match his doublet. 

Nureyev had pressed his black leather mask into Juno’s hands when they parted all those mornings ago, insisting Juno take something to remember him by. That mask spent a lot of hours in his left hand while his right scribbled down love letters to give back to the bird Nureyev had sent. 

Juno returned the favor by laying his necklace, a simple gold chain, around Nureyev’s neck and insisting that he keep it as his own token. Seeing the chain still adorning Peter’s throat on the evening of the ball made Juno’s chest fill with a sudden and embarrassing warmth. 

“You’d better know your dances, Rose. I’m not letting you step on my toes all night,” Juno grumbled. 

“Of course. Do you take me for an amateur, my love?” 

Juno chuckled, giving a glance around to ensure nobody he knew was nearby. 

“You’ve ruined me, you know that, right? Baroness Zolotovna’s boring a couple of holes through you. I’m never gonna live down bringing someone like you to one of these,” Juno joked once he and Nureyev had finished their procession and had to clear the floor for the King. “Nobody’s ever interested in my love life until my love life’s handsome.”

“Not just through me,” Nureyev smirked. “And who wouldn’t? You look ravishing in gold, my love.” 

“No need to schmooze me.”

“No schmoozing necessary. Aren’t I allowed to tell my Lady love how enchanting he looks?” Nureyev mused. Juno felt his face going hot. 

“Shut up, the King’s coming through,” he shot back, glad a gilded mask of his own partially obscured his flush. 

The double doors to the ballroom, arching nearly as high as the ceiling, fell open for a man draped in a hundred year’s salaries worth of velvet and fur and gold. The King’s hand held firm over the gem-encrusted hilt of his sword, a weapon of sheer opulence that Juno doubted could do any real damage. Juno gripped Nureyev’s arm when he felt him go tense. 

“If he’s feeling pissy, he might make you kiss his hand. Nobody wants that, so don’t make him pissy,” Juno growled. Even though his eyes were on the spectacle of hedonism making his way down the center of the hall, he could feel Nureyev let out a shaky breath. 

“I’ve lost family to starvation at his hand,” Nureyev muttered as soon as the King gestured for the music to begin and stepped aside to watch the festivities from his throne. 

“Just act like you’re happy to see me and want to dance,” Juno hissed. The change in Nureyev’s face and demeanor was almost unnerving, as if a switch had been flicked. 

“Well then,” he all but beamed, though something sharp and dangerous had been set alight in his eye. “I suppose there’s no solution but the one at hand. I do intend to make this a very special evening for all three of us.” 

“What’s your game plan?” Juno asked, trying to force a smile onto his face himself and wave to the occasional noble he found tolerable. 

“Wait until the King joins the festivities, then slip away,” Nureyev responded. To an ear unfocused on their words, he might have sounded like he was making a joke. Juno returned the act with a shaky chuckle. 

“He doesn’t. He sits there watching all night.”

“Well then, I suppose we will just have to see, be seen, and then when the time is right, sneak away, as couples are apt to do,” Nureyev smiled. 

He bowed and offered Juno his arm. 

“May I have this dance, my Lady?” 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Juno laughed, and this time, truly meant it. 

Nureyev swept him onto the floor and through a delicate minuet as if his legs had been born to walk the steps. Juno was happy to follow along, though his heart sank a little with his skirt’s circumference keeping them so far apart. 

“Damn, Rose,” he chuckled after the first dance came to an end. “You really know how to make a lady feel special.”

“I’m afraid you will be much less impressed with me when I tell you I learned all these dances with a broom for a partner,” Nureyev chuckled, so light and sweet Juno almost forgot the room was bigger than the two of them alone. 

In his distraction, gaze still clinging to the spot where the mask met skin on Nureyev’s sloping cheek, he accidentally tripped over an unpartnered man in a brown doublet. 

“Sorry, big guy,” Juno called on the way by, brow knitting. Peter’s face fell in turn, bottom lip pulled between his teeth in thought. 

“What’s that look for, darling?” Nureyev asked as he led Juno off the floor to let their lungs recover for one song. 

“I’ve never seen that guy before in my life,” Juno murmured. He glanced around for the man he ran into, but it seemed he had already drifted away through the crowd and was pouring himself a cup of tea from one of the extensive dining tables. 

“Perhaps he’s recently inherited a title. You did say you hadn’t attended a ball such as this in quite some time,” Nureyev offered, though he leaned a little closer to Juno when he continued. “And if he really is here with malicious intent towards the palace, you would do well to remember that means he’s on our side.” 

“Right. Just have a weird feeling about him, that’s all,” Juno muttered. 

“Why don’t you have a weird feeling while we dance our way towards that hallway, then?” 

“After you, your grace,” Juno teased, laughing when Nureyev glared. “Hey, if you wanted a different title, you would’ve picked one. It’s not my fault you’re flying miles above my honorary Ladyship.” 

“You’re insufferable, Juno,” Nureyev grumbled, though his tone struggled to remain serious with a glowing smile poking through. 

“Hey, that’s ‘my Lady’ to you,” Juno teased. 

“You’re my Lady, Juno,” Peter corrected himself. If his grin was anything to go by, Juno’s mask hadn’t hidden the blush he felt at all. 

Nureyev led him to the floor once more, his grip on Juno’s hand as tight and protective as it was light and gentle. Dancing with him was nothing like the night they had spent together just over a week before. The evening had been chaste and intimate, defined by feather light touch and a feeling of safety so strong it wrapped around Juno like a plush blanket. 

This dance was far more alike to their first meeting, though it was Nureyev’s steady hand on his back and his soft, glowing smile that made his heart skip beats, rather than a sword pressing into his throat. 

He could almost forget they were floating across the ballroom floor in the direction of a hall that would take them to the crown jewels, rather than just a Duke and his Lady twirling through a hazy, enchanted evening. 

Nureyev was still holding his hand when he ducked through the archway, stone echoing under his hurried footfalls while Juno followed at a jog. 

“Is this the right way?” he whispered, though he was forced to raise his voice over the swirling sound of two pairs of shoes on the uncarpeted stone before them. 

“Yeah. Take a left up here. It’s gonna look like a dead end, but there’s a servant’s passage hidden in the wall,” Juno returned, coming to a stop when the tapestry that marked the secret doorway came into view. 

“Is this it?”

“Yeah, give me a second to breathe,” Juno said, dropping his skirt from where he had hiked it up to run. “You got a little excited there.”

“Sue me,” Peter chuckled. “It’s not every day I get to commit the theft of the century with my Lady love.”

“Keep your voice down,” Juno hissed, though he was unable to pry the smile from his tone. 

“How do we get into the tunnel?” Nureyev started. Juno didn’t respond, merely feeling along the wall for the right stone to push to trigger the doorway. He gave Nureyev a triumphant smile when a stone gave way and with it, a darkened doorway appeared in the wall. 

. . . 

“After you,” Juno said, gesturing to the door with a little mock-bow that made Nureyev’s breath catch. 

“If you insist, my lady,” he beamed, and returned the bow with an even more exuberant one of his own. Juno rolled his eyes. 

Nureyev stepped inside the doorway, but barely had the time to take in his surroundings when the door behind him shut with a low sound like the closing of a coffin lid. With no light, he whirled around, feeling blindly for the crease of the doorway, or perhaps, Juno himself, but found himself utterly alone. 

“Juno,” he called. He couldn’t remember the last time his voice had shaken like this. “This isn’t funny.”

“Stay quiet,” Juno hissed, voice so low it made Nureyev’s heart skip a beat. 

Peter pounded his fist against the stone. 

“Juno Steel, I swear to God, if you don’t let me out of here—”

“If something happens, I need you to run,” Juno said. Nureyev recognized the ordering tone with which he spoke to his officers. 

Peter was an idiot to trust him, just because he assisted with one heist and helped him with his laundry. Juno was a smart lady, so much so that Nureyev’s mind reeled with pathetic adoration for it. Of course he’d been planning this all along. Whatever bone he might have had to pick with the King was probably worth far less than the raise he’d get for turning in the Nameless Thief, stripped of not only his anonymity, but his dignity as well. 

However, with his fist aching from the unyielding stone door and his eyes straining to find an escape route other than the gaping black hallway behind him, Nureyev did as he was told. 

He soon heard why Juno wanted him quiet in the first place when the clicking of shoes and the dragging hiss of an impressive cape on a stone floor slithered into the room like an unwelcome wind. 

“Your majesty,” Juno greeted. He sounded as if his throat had gone dry.

“Sheriff Steel,” the King began, his voice as cold and slippery as an eel. It left a kind of slimy residue on the ear, and Nureyev felt unclean for having heard it. “What are you doing in this corridor?”

“I saw an unfamiliar guest at the party sneaking away. Out of suspicion, I followed,” Juno returned. 

“I am not an idiot, sheriff. You two looked quite familiar, if I am correct.”

Nureyev froze, his sweat-slick fingers still ghosting over the edge of the doorway in search of exit, just in case something were to go horribly wrong. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Juno choked. 

“If not familiar, you two did seem friendly,” the King said. Nureyev felt he could have been ill when he heard the smile creep into his voice. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve made quite the mistake in taking me for a fool, Steel. I take careful stock in what is taken from the possession of myself and other nobles, and there has been quite the trail of missing items as of late. Of course, this Nameless Thief fellow is the easiest to blame, but I believe this is larger than just him,” the King mused. 

Nureyev wasn’t sure how much longer Juno could bluff his way out of this one. His fingers kept scrambling on the wall, finding no loose bricks or buttons or abnormalities in their groping search. 

“Get to the point.”

“You always were testy, then. Fine. I’ll make my point. You have passively allowed this thief and others to steal from the noble class, and on this night, the King himself. Sheriff Juno Steel, you are guilty of high treason against the Hyperion Crown,” the King announced. Nureyev felt his blood go cold. “Punishable by death.”

“This won’t ever stand up in court,” Juno shot back. There was a rustling, as if he was struggling around his skirts to find the knife he had tucked away. 

“I don’t need it to,” the King laughed, and just as Nureyev’s fingers found the loose brick, he was rendered frozen by the sound of a sword leaving its hilt and embedding itself deep in Juno’s chest. 

“You—” Juno choked. His gasping, rattling breath felt like a physical hand squeezing around Nureyev’s heart.

“I’ll send the maids to clean up in an hour or so,” the King sighed. “It’s a pity, really. You were quite the lawman before I killed your brother. You got soft after that, Steel.”

The rustling of the King’s cape grew quieter and quieter as he walked off, until the only sounds left were the distant flickering of candles and choked groans from the floor. 

Nureyev sank his hand into the stone, a gasp of relief pushed from his chest when the door flew open and sent him crashing onto the floor at Juno’s side. 

Whatever he had pictured from just the sound of it, the image of Juno, crumpled and bleeding all over that lovely gown of his, was far worse. His face had already taken on an ashen shade while his hands grasped pointelessly at the blooming stain on the bodice of his dress. 

Between those bold shades of red and gold, Nureyev couldn’t help but think numbly of his garden and the many-colored dahlias he had bunched to lay at Juno’s bedside. It was strange to think he had been so concerned then, when Juno had shed so much less blood. 

“Juno,” he breathed, trying his best to treasure the word on his lips, though panic forced it to come out stuttering. 

“Nureyev, you need to run,” Juno said between gritted teeth. When Nureyev offered him his hand, he took it and squeezed so tight that Peter wondered if a finger might have been dislocated. He didn’t have it in him to care. 

“I’m not leaving without you,” he pressed. 

“I don’t have time to argue with you now. You just have to go, with me or not,” Juno insisted. Nureyev didn’t need any more convincing than that, and with his heart pounding in his ears and Juno’s blood drying on their interconnected hands, he took him into his arms and ran as fast as his legs could manage.

“You’re going to be okay,” he murmured. 

“I’m really not,” Juno groaned, teeth digging into his bottom lip when Nureyev’s pace jostled him. A bead of blood bloomed from between his teeth and Peter’s gut twisted a little tighter at the sight of it. 

“Fine. I need you to be okay,” Nureyev continued on. Beyond the static building in his head, he heard running feet and clattering armor from behind. “I think we have company.”

He felt something that might have been bile rising in his throat when he tried to speed up, only to find his legs throbbed in protest and begged him to slow his pace. The sounds from behind grew louder still. In denial of it all, Nureyev gripped Juno tighter. 

“Put me down,” Juno said. 

“You’re losing blood, love. You’re not making sense,” Nureyev choked, though between his heavy breathing and the feeling of Juno getting limper and limper in his arms, the words came out hysterical. 

“I’m not gonna make it, but if you try to carry me out of here, neither of us will,” Juno insisted. Nureyev kept running nonetheless. He couldn’t tell if it was a wheeze or a sob pressing against his throat anymore. 

Nureyev tried to find something to say, but Juno fisted one hand into his collar and dragged him down into a bloody, bruising kiss. 

“Juno,” Peter murmured, blinking furiously so he might get one last look at Juno’s soft smile. 

Before he had the chance, however, Juno kicked with a strength Nureyev didn’t know he had left. Nureyev bent double, stomach aching from where his heel had sunk into the skin. Juno hit the ground. 

“Go!” Juno shouted from the floor, almost drowned out by the clamoring of the ever-nearing guards. 

Nureyev knew he would always hate himself for the choice he made that instant, with Juno bleeding out and going still on the floor where he had all but leapt from Peter’s arms, left to die surrounded by enemies rather than in the embrace of a lover. 

Peter ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this was 50% "i have no right to be this upset over my own writing" and 50% "awwww does pissbaby feel STABBED?"
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! Make sure to SMASH that kudos button and leave a comment down below or I'll hurt Juno More somehow
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric!!


	5. Miracle Max

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the princess bride because of course it is
> 
> Content warnings for mentions of injury, mentions of revolution, mentions of war, mentions of catastrophic weather, one mention of alcohol (it isn't actually present in the scene)

“I’m not a witch, I’m your wife!” an unfamiliar voice called. Though Juno was still blinking his eyes open, he could hear at least two other people, one laughing at the remark and the other fussing with something in the corner. 

“My doctor, then,” another voice chuckled. “And my wife.”

“What the hell—” Juno started, far too sore to do anything more than lift his head. He blinked and looked around to find himself in the company of four still-blurred people. 

The blur with the impressive mass of red hair had her arms wrapped around another woman, with her green hair tied up and out of her face. Juno could only assume these two were the aforementioned wives. An extremely tall and extremely short blur sat just out of his sight, though the identity of one of them was quickly confirmed. 

“Mistah Steel!” Rita cried, throwing her arms around him so tight he felt his ribs protest. “I thought you was dead! You didn’t come home when you were supposed to and I got nervous so I went out to the palace and I found Mistah Jet carrying you out and that scared the heck outta me because I didn’t know he was a real nice guy at the time so I said that he wasn’t gonna take you anywhere if I couldn’t come too and so we ended up here but you was out for days even though Miss Vespa’s really good at healing and—” 

Rita broke off for a breath, but couldn’t continue anymore when Juno threw his arms around her and pulled her into another hug, pain in his chest be damned. 

“I’m okay,” he breathed. 

“You’d better be, Mistah Steel. You just about gave me a heart attack.”

When Juno was able to pry an elbow loose to try and sit up, he crumpled again with a groan. 

“Easy on your stitches, Steel,” someone hissed. Juno turned to see the green haired woman, who he could only assume was Vespa. Her arms were crossed over an herb-packed apron, and from the green smear across one of her cheeks and the hair gradually falling out of her bun, he could only assume she had been at work for some while. 

“Right,” he returned, leaning back down onto the table and instead shifting his head to look about. 

The room seemed to belong to a bigger building than Nureyev’s cottage, but it was surrounded on all sides by forest nonetheless. Similar plants to the ones stuffed into the dozens of pockets on Vespa’s apron lined the walls and nearby tables. Juno assumed this was some kind of infirmary, though he had no idea what it was doing in a building that otherwise, seemed to be a house. 

“As Rita said, I found you in a hallway at the prince’s ball. I was there to investigate the prince’s quality of leadership. I had seen you in the company of the Nameless Thief earlier that night, and I assumed you were an enemy of the prince. I thought you might be sympathetic to our cause, and as such, I saved your life,” a fourth voice, cool and low explained. 

“You’re—hey, you were at the party,” Juno realized as his gaze fell upon the stranger in the brown doublet from the night before. 

“As were you. I believe you tripped on me,” the big guy returned. 

“Sorry about that.”

“Apology accepted.”

“So, about that cause thing—” Juno started, only for the red haired woman to break him off. 

“Juno—can I call you Juno?” she began, not waiting for a response. “Are you aware that your so-called King sits on his throne unrightfully?”

“Look, I’m not here to start a coup or anything. I just don’t like his economic policy.”

The woman seemed to find that amusing. She reminded him of Nureyev in a lot of ways, though Nureyev wore his confidence like an expensive coat. However, confidence seemed to be woven into this woman’s skin, like gold into an expensive tapestry. 

“The Prince took the throne when Queen Aurinko left to join the army in defense of the southern border. I’m sure you don’t need a reminder of all the semantics,” she explained. 

“Yeah, we won, a hurricane scattered and destroyed most of the surviving navy, the survivors were pretty few and far between, and the Queen and her inner circle didn’t make it. No heirs, so her younger brother took the throne. What’s the issue with that?” Juno asked. 

“Did the Queen ever die?”

“There was a funeral.”

“Did you ever see her body?”

Juno swallowed. 

“Look,” he started, sighing. “I was a kid when it happened. I’m just trying to do what I can to help the little guy, and if that means helping thieves, it means helping thieves. I don’t know what kind of political—”

“Look at me, Juno,” the woman interrupted. “Really look.”

“Huh,” he chuckled after a moment, the only thing he could manage when it felt like the floor, or rather, the table had dropped out from under him. “Your brother really got the short end of the genetic stick.”

“Hey—” Vespa started, a little defensively, though she broke off when legend-turned-living-legend Buddy Aurinko laughed. 

“I’m sorry to make you wait so long for that reveal, darling, but the look on your face was quite priceless,” she beamed. 

“Then I’m gonna assume that’s Vespa, your chief strategist—”

“And doctor,” Vespa cut off. 

“And wife,” Buddy grinned. Vespa softened a little at that. 

“And the big guy is—” Juno trailed off. 

“My name is Friar Sikuliaq, though you may call me Jet,” the big guy returned, head bowed in acknowledgement. 

“Do you have any more questions?” Buddy offered. 

“Yeah, two,” Juno started, and with a groan, managed to sit up. Rita kept a hand on his shoulder, just in case. “Where’s the Nameless Thief?”

“He escaped into the forest and was not followed,” Jet said. The knot in Juno’s stomach loosened a bit. 

“And where even are we?”

“I call it the Lighthouse. It’s been my secret rendezvous point ever since I sat upon Hyperion’s throne,” Buddy explained. “Now it’s home to myself and the remains of my inner circle, at least until the uprising we’ve planned.”

“Woah, woah, woah, wait—uprising?”

“I am the rightful Queen, after all,” Buddy returned, an eyebrow raised. “And I don’t tax the poor to death for sport.”

“Yeah, fair point.”

“The question is whether or not you are willing to participate.”

Juno swallowed, then managed a nod. 

“I’ll try anything once.”

“Nobody’s uprising anywhere until Steel can walk,” Vespa called from the corner, where she was tidying various cloth wrappings. Juno glanced down and saw they matched the mass of bandages on his abdomen. 

“Of course, darling,” Buddy smiled. 

“We were gonna get married when we got back from the war, but after a decade of waiting, we got impatient. Sikuliaq officiated,” Vespa explained. 

“Aww, that’s so dang romantic!” Rita sighed. “Just like in this one ballad where—”

“Rita,” Juno groaned, though he knew he could do nothing to stop her. At least their company didn’t seem to mind. Jet was giving her his rapt attention, while Buddy looked on affectionately and gave Vespa the occasional squeeze of her hand. 

As peaceful as this all was, in a woodland cottage, surrounded by friendly company, and on the mend, he couldn’t help his chest aching at the thought of Peter Nureyev, who had given him his anonymity on a silver platter alongside his heart. Nureyev probably thought he was nameless once again, with Juno, to his knowledge, dead and buried in a cold ditch behind the palace. 

He wished Nureyev could be in the Lighthouse with him, looking out the warped glass windows and seeing the sunlight dapple a field so similar to the one near his home. On the far edge of the clearing, red and orange and pink dahlias grew in a bright patch. He might have to pick a few of those before leaving. 

Unlike Nureyev, Vespa had a much less intimate bedside manner, preferring to yell at Juno whenever he tried to help around the cottage. Juno supposed everyone’s expression of worry couldn’t be half as nice as soft touches to his hair and sweet nothings in his ear, but he really wished Vespa could sound a little less like him while instructing him to keep his stitches dry. 

At least he was alive, and surrounded by, if not all friends, friendly people. He preferred Vespa’s death threats if he tore a single stitch to the cold and humiliating gaze of the palace doctor. 

The palace doctor also didn’t let him help with dinner, though he supposed he would gladly die before ever sharing a meal with that stone gargoyle come to life. 

Juno didn’t consider himself the greatest chef in the world, but there was something about a meal made with numerous hands on deck and good company that made it taste all the better, even when the hour drew late and the only light in the dining hall was the warm glow of the hearth, merrily crackling adjacent to the table. 

While the meal drew to a close and Vespa looked as if she was ready to pester Juno until he got another fourteen hours of sleep, Buddy rose to her feet, cup in hand. 

“I propose a toast,” she began. “To Jet and Rita, for rescuing the newest member of our team, to Vespa, for saving him, and to Juno, for managing not to rip his stitches yet.”

“Hey—” Juno started, though his retort was quelled by the warmth of repressed laughter in her voice. 

“To the Queen’s inner circle,” Buddy beamed to the percussion of glasses bumping together. “My family.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Juno returned. 

“You’d better be drinking water, Steel,” Vespa warned. 

“I’m not an idiot. I value my life.”

“I never said you were. You’d better not be putting words in my mouth.”

“I’ll put whatever the hell I want—”

“Ladies,” Buddy interrupted. Juno swallowed. 

Juno had barely been a teenager when Buddy Aurinko supposedly died at war. Vague, fuzzy shapes of mourners and a hearse resided somewhere in his conscience, but little more than that. As such, he hadn’t the first idea of what to expect from a leader like her. 

There were simple things that he could deduce. If the current King, or rather, Prince, as Buddy and her inner circle referred to him, had to raise taxes to suppress the working class, he supposed they must have been lower under Aurinko. He also supposed she was popular and held a great national pride, for riding off to war with one’s own troops was a bit of a ballsy move. 

He supposed there was a lot to learn from that first day of recovery as well. Buddy allowed Rita to stay on the principle of loyalty, and perhaps some minor assistance to Sikuliaq, though he looked as if he could handle himself. She also employed the kind of man who saw a fellow traitor injured and rescued him, rather than going about any other plans. She married her doctor, rather than a foreign princess, and commanded an almost familial respect. 

Juno didn’t consider himself quick to trust, but he couldn’t help but place his faith in Queen Aurinko, the same way his trust had fallen into Nureyev’s lap. There was a kind of security in trust, and with the group of people Buddy called her family sitting at the table all around, he supposed he could get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd throw you all a soft ball after last time. Oopsies. Sometimes, as an author, you just need to impale your favorite character. To cope. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to SMASH that kudos button and leave a comment down below or I'll tap dance on your roof!
> 
> Check out my tumblr @hopeless-eccentric !!


	6. Time and Mercy are Out of Your Reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is. Uh. Fun. Title from O Death. Just in case you thought this was going to be shits n giggles. I honestly love this one though we get more horse action
> 
> Content warnings for grief, blood, attempted murder, assassination, self destructive behaviors, insomnia, knife violence, mentioned starvation, mentioned hypothermia, mentioned betrayal, death, corpse mention, mentioned corruption in law enforcement, decay mention

The King was going to die, and Peter Nureyev didn’t care how. He didn’t even care if it killed him. 

It had been almost two decades since Nureyev had planned a mission such as this, after an attempted uprising against a Lord left his mentor dead and his hands bloodied. He was not worried about losing his touch, however. His mission was simple. The King had to die, and Nureyev would not rest until his hands were stained red with his blood. 

The scars left from his mentor were far more extensive than the residual lines from heists gone wrong. Even as he paced throughout his cottage, walking the same tiny circle over and over again and praying the scent of his partner’s blood on his hands might soon fade, he could practically hear that voice, even two decades dead. 

He could almost hear Mag chastising him for trusting so quickly. He sacrificed his charms and sense for the sake of a pretty face and a quick tongue that made his chest grow tight. Nureyev was incapacitated now, useless in his grief over someone he had known for mere months. For all he knew, Juno could have been a terrible person, just like every other noble. Perhaps he was using Nureyev all along, as he had barely allowed himself to suspect. The thought stung like a slap to the face and despite himself, he felt a burning behind his eyes. 

However much his throat might have choked, he did not cry. Peter Nureyev did not cry. That was something his mentor had told him as well. 

Dawn had barely begun to paint the sky a hazy blue-yellow over Sherwood Forest when he returned home and thrust his hands into the washbasin. The water was as clouded with soap as it was with the brickish red he tried to pry his mind away from, just focusing on cleaning Juno’s blood from his nails. 

By the time he realized he had rubbed his hands raw in the basin, the sun was blazing from above with a mocking brilliance. It shone not unlike Juno’s ballgown the night before, though instead of his chest filling with a heady warmth at the thought, all he felt was a numbing, buzzing cold. 

Years as an urchin had accustomed him to cold. During winters where the chill seemed to bore bone deep he wondered vaguely, in whatever childlike way he could, if this is what it felt like to die. 

When Mag found him, he was lighting the last of his firewood and shaking like a breeze might blow him over. Nureyev couldn’t corroborate the story. He just remembered waking up in a warm bed for the first time in years while the man he would one day kill brushed his hair from his face and whispered a desperate prayer that the child might wake. 

That memory filled him with a different kind of ice. 

The cold making iron of his bones now was not dissimilar to the winters that had likely almost killed him as a child. It was an ache he could not quell with food or drink or company, only fading a little when he sat at the side of his crackling fire, watching the embers sputter and die, for he had not the energy nor will to stoke it. 

He had not seen that gilded sword bury itself, likely hilt-deep, into Juno’s chest, the way hapless clippers hack away at the stem of a premature rose. However, his mind’s eye saw nothing but the priceless gems at the hilt staining crimson as the bastard who called himself King strolled away. 

When the smell of Juno, still lingering in his quilt, became too overwhelming, he decided to forego sleep altogether. When he found his mind drove itself in pathetic circles in his waking hours, he decided to put it to use. 

His plan was borne from these late nights, scribbled into being on old scraps of parchment and whispered into audibility when Nureyev murmured his thoughts to the indifferent stars above. At times, when loneliness and exhaustion drove him to it, he would spend his late nights outside, strolling around that moonlit circle of paradise and running his fingers over Juno’s necklace while Ruby fell asleep. 

The silver of the midsummer moon used to look so lovely painting his dahlias different variations of their usual hues. Now they just seemed pale, as ashen as Juno’s face had been the last time Nureyev managed to catch his eye. 

He never did ask why Juno wore the eyepatch, nor about the scar across his nose that brought more dignity to his face than his technical title of nobility ever would. He wore each scar the way a bejeweled princess wears another brooch or necklace or intricate work of diamond and precious metal. 

Numbly, he wondered where those scars were now, perhaps already mottled by worms or fish wherever his body had been dumped. 

He didn’t think it was helpful to think of what he would have done, especially not with the date of the assassination drawing ever closer and his need for sleep weighing on him like a bulky suit of armor. Nureyev could only file so many things away for future consideration, however, and a little flowered grave next to his patch of dahlias was an image that refused to be pushed aside.

Queen Anne’s Lace grew in loose bunches at the treeline, and though he did not usually stray so far in his gardening, he couldn’t help but think of a bed of the flowers framing his dahlia’s face, just as ashen as the moonlit blooms scattered around his cottage. He supposed he might even return that necklace to his lover’s throat, just because it had looked so lovely there to begin with. 

It was not useful. He doubted it was healthy to stay up all night pacing until his legs felt sore and imagining all the things he would have done if he hadn’t turned to run away. But Juno Steel was dead, and the world that had been created just to hold a place for him was a terrible thing in his absence. The rules had long since been rewritten. 

He supposed Juno was right, after all. With the echoing of footsteps from behind and the rate at which he was already losing blood, he would have gone still in Nureyev’s arms, and as such, Peter likely wouldn’t escape alive either. 

If his sundial was correct, he had been drawing circles in the dirt outside his cottage for almost an hour when he wondered if that might have, perhaps, been better. Even if he too would be in a cold ditch or a moat somewhere, they would lie there side by side, even as decay and insects ate their flesh. 

Decaying hand in hand with Juno Steel didn’t sound half bad. 

Without Juno, and with his only set of extravagant clothing stained irreversibly dark, he had no chance of sneaking into the palace under the guise of a noble. Besides, the King had seen the two of them together. Even if Nureyev had the advantage of a mask hiding his identity, he could not twice wear the same disguise. 

He settled for a lower class disguise this time around. While he had an extra leather mask, he did not plan on using it, for he remembered the other he had given to Juno as a token of remembrance. He planned to enter in plain sight, under the guise of a beggar who would offer information about the Nameless Thief in exchange for an audience with the King. 

The owner of an orphanage who he had known well, even if only through notes and anonymous donations, agreed to watch over his horse while he went through the town on foot. A beggar on horseback would raise suspicion, especially on a steed such as Ruby. 

As he left his horse tied to the fencepost outside the building, he couldn’t help but notice something flickering in her eye, as if his nod of farewell might hold more weight than he was anticipating. 

Perhaps he was just projecting what thoughts he could not carefully file away. A part of him was terrified, as he had no plan of exit. It was reckless, of course, but he had found himself so far past caring. If he died with his knife plunged into the King’s chest, he would die happy. 

With the castle gate approaching, he reached underneath his robe and clutched at Juno’s necklace, just for good luck. 

“Halt,” a guard, one of the women who had caught him in the town square called when he drew close, hunched and limping beneath the folds of a rough robe he had woven himself. “State your purpose.”

“I seek an audience with the king,” he rasped, hoping to age his voice to match his veneer of bodily weakness. With exhaustion weighing on him, however, it was not difficult to let his mental pains ooze into the trembling of his tone. 

“Why should we allow you one?” the other guard demanded. Nureyev did not recognize her, though she stood a little taller than the first and wore a different armor, as if of a higher rank. She stepped closer and lifted his chin with her spear, peering into the shady depths of his hood. 

Before he could answer, she narrowed her eyes. 

“You’re younger than I expected.”

“Famine and plague have weathered my body, even if God saw fit to spare my face,” he returned, bowing his head once more. While it may have seemed a gesture of respect, he was truly trying to keep her examinations of his face short, so she might not have the chance to compare him with his shoddily drawn wanted poster. 

“Give me one good reason not to cast you into the moat right now, stranger,” she growled. 

“I have information regarding the Nameless Thief.” 

The officer straightened once more and turned back to her subordinate. 

“Let him through. He says he knows about the Nameless Thief,” she ordered. The guard nodded in response and turned to open the door. 

“You’ll see a servant when you enter. Tell him what you told me, and he will bring you to the king,” the officer said. Even as Nureyev limped through the doorway, her hand grew tight around the shaft of her spear. 

He was inside, and in the presence of an unarmed servant. That didn’t mean that he could relax. The servant offered to take his robe, though he waved them off with a hand feigning feebleness. 

Nureyev spoke as little as possible, as much to keep his voice from tiring as it was to bottle away the ire setting his veins alight. When not stone, the floors were laid in slabs of marble or ruby red carpets, each twenty men long and worth three years’ salaries. His hand itched and twitched beneath his robe, just waiting to sink his hidden knife into the throat of a man who found wealth so trivial he displayed it underfoot. 

He hardly spared a glance for the tapestries on the walls, too preoccupied with the dirty money oozing from every corner of the room. The doorknobs were all intricate, and even the ceiling, which was nearly too high to look at, bloomed with paintings of a sunrise and cherubim all around. 

The King’s throne room was no better. It wore gold the way a person wore skin, and the King himself slumped atop his ancient seat of power as if the prospect bored him. Upon his weathered head of shaggy gray hair, a crown sat tilted, forgotten as his gaze fixed out one stained-glass window at the storm that had drawn the sky dark with clouds. 

“What reason have you to be here?” the King snarled, peering down a long, thin face at the rumpled pile of worn cloth before him. Though it felt like a knife in his chest to do so, Nureyev fell to his knees. 

“I seek your audience so I might tell you what I know of the Nameless Thief, your majesty,” he returned. 

Nureyev was vaguely aware that the pair of them were not alone, and he could see no exit save for the towering oak doors behind him. He had passed guards on the way into the room, but he supposed they would not be a problem. In his younger years of thieving, he had done worse than injuring a pair of guards for a moral crusade. 

His lip curled at the thought of his plan being a moral one, rather than consummately selfish. Once, he had stolen from kings and nobles alike in return for their predatory taxing policies and the corruption in local law enforcement. As ashamed as his mentor might have been, his set of morals stood clearly in favor of helping the less fortunate. 

There was only one reason he wanted to sink the blade beneath his robe into the King’s heart, however. He killed Juno. He had to pay. 

“What knowledge do you offer me?”

“His name, sire,” Nureyev said. He was unsure if the quaver in his voice was even feigned anymore. 

“Rise,” the King demanded, and when Nureyev did as he was ordered, he caught a smirk playing at the edge of his wiry mouth. “And speak, so I may hear you.”

Nureyev took a few steps forward, as if stumbling under suffering legs. If the guards were suspicious, they made no move to suggest so. 

“The Nameless Thief attempts to exist without a name because he does not wish to be tied to the mentor who came before him,” he explained, eyes locked with the steely gaze of the man who had killed his lover. 

“And what, pray tell, is that name?” the King pressed, an eagerness rising in his voice in tandem with the bile in Nureyev’s throat. 

“Peter Nureyev.”

Nureyev was surprised he didn’t die in that moment, speaking those two words into the nearly empty throne room and wincing as they echoed around the stone walls. He could feel his heart pounding faster now, as if straining against the clasps of his robe. 

“And why do you tell me this?”

Peter looked into the face that had grinned when it saw Juno Steel, the lady who still held Nureyev’s heart in his cold, gray hand, hit the floor mere weeks ago. He swallowed, searching desperately for words that might earn vengeance for his parents, the orphans he supported, and the lover who had gone limp on the ground while he turned and ran to save his own skin. 

“Well?” the King demanded. The impatient tapping of his foot rang out like the drum before an execution. Nureyev steeled himself. 

“So you might know the name of the man who killed you,” he snarled, knife bared and arm raised and heart pounding in his ears. 

He lunged, as primed to kill as a predator with nothing but feral brutality and bloodlust dragging it forward in an insatiable magnetism to the throat of its prey. He prepared to strike, carefully sharpened weapon primed to feel just how supple that wretched throat was when pierced at high speeds. 

At some point, he started laughing, though he was unsure if it was when the wary officer who followed him to the throne room threw him to the ground or when she tied his hands behind his back and sentenced him to death. His throat was raw with it by the time he was dragged from the room, knife long-forgotten on the floor and King still, distinctly alive. 

Perhaps he and Juno might be buried in the same cold ditch after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLAD WE ALL GOT THROUGH THAT ONE TOGETHER JEEZY CREEZY
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to SMASH that kudos button and leave a comment down below or I'll make Nureyev sadder. That is a threat
> 
> Find me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric !!


	7. A Stranger's Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets happy after this one folks. I promise.
> 
> Content warnings for execution, mentions of murder, mentions of betrayal, dissociation, grief/mourning, mentions of death, protests, starvation mention, corruption, general intense sadness?, blood mention

The Nameless Thief was nearly half as old as Peter Nureyev was, though his knowledge of his own age was more a rough approximation. He had not known it when he slept under his parents’ roof and he never learned it from the man who claimed to be an old friend of his father’s. 

He could keep track of the number of years the Nameless Thief had been around, in the way he could hide his face behind masks and cultivate a reputation and personality that had none of Peter Nureyev tied to it. The Nameless Thief was charming and confident, with a chivalrous streak so wide it had a tendency to endanger his heists. He was never truly caught, only dipping his toe into the pool of danger so he could splash anyone who came too close. 

Peter Nureyev was not a name that struck fear into the hearts of the oppressors and hope into the hearts of the less fortunate. Rather, after an attempted uprising gone wrong, it was the name of the man who bore his mentor’s blood on his hands and the reason that specific Lord had tightened his iron fist around the throats of the poor. 

The Nameless Thief, on the other hand, was exactly who Peter Nureyev had always meant to be. There was as much strength in anonymity as there was in this false name. The noble class knew exactly what to fear when travelling roads by night in their very robbable carriages and who it was that inspired quiet rebellion among their subjects. As much as his lack of a name protected the image he sought, the new one he had acquired was a weapon in its own right. 

He used aliases on and off, though the whip of his blade and the black leather mask tied over his face were enough of a thread between crimes that authorities and citizens alike stopped referring to Rex Glass and Perseus Shah and Christopher Morales as anything other than a single, unnamed entity. Nureyev was almost ashamed the Nameless Thief moniker hadn’t been his idea, but rather, the name placed on his wanted poster, demanding he be brought to the palace dead or alive. 

The first few years of thieving on his own hadn’t been nearly as fun as the later years, and the majority of his scars had been acquired in his trial period as the Nameless Thief. Once he got accustomed to a sword in one hand and a heavy bag of gold coin in the other, however, things got a little easier. It also helped that he never hung onto that gold for long, preferring to redistribute it among the less fortunate and help in the way he had been unable to all those years ago. 

That wasn’t to say he didn’t keep some for himself. Certain heists were less simple than kicking through a window, dueling a few equally nameless goons, and disappearing off into the night a little richer and a little more infamous. Occasionally, he would have to assume a name once more, put on a different mask, or perhaps, no mask at all, and pick the pockets of the wealthy from right under their noses. He would always announce himself before leaving, however. The Nameless Thief had a reputation to uphold. 

Oddly enough, he had never expected his profession to pay any more than what he kept from himself, namely spare items of clothing he found dashing and on one occasion, a horse. However, one heist went particularly wrong when a Cavalier’s servant found him picking through his jewelry. With no exit, he drew a sword, but instead of raising alarm, the servant merely asked if he was the folk hero thief and led him out through the servant’s passages. 

The public reaction to his career was frankly embarrassing. The bards and minstrels who insisted on singing his praises didn’t know of the blood on his hands, nor that his heroism was really a two-decade long revenge. He had to insist to himself that everything he did, deep down, was selfish, and merely coincided with a greater good, though after years of pretending, that insistence grew a fainter and fainter thought. It was the kind of thing his mentor would tell him, rather than something he would think for himself. 

On another occasion, he was making a close escape from a few of the King’s guards, only to be dragged inside a church by the local friar. The friar tucked him away in a closet while explaining to the guards that he had seen no such man as the one they asked after, and that they were not free to barge into a place of worship so late into the night. When the search was over, the friar sent him on his way as if nothing had happened, wishing him blessings and safety for the night. 

Nureyev could see exactly why the King wanted him dead. With two ballads to his name, or lack thereof, he had accidentally become a symbol of quiet insurgence. He didn’t doubt the King had done all in his power to spread the word of his fratricide, but from the sound of a quite angry crowd gathered outside his cell, he had a feeling the King’s efforts had done very little after all. 

Even as he paced, hands wringing and leather boots scuffed from his walking, he managed a smile every once in a while when he heard a tomato hit one of the guards stationed outside of the jail. The guards were powerless to keep him from undoing his bound hands, but after days in the cell and no mistake in the rotation of the guards, he suspected the King was being as anal about security within as he was without the jail. 

With no exit plan, he merely did his best to make his peace with God and steel himself for whatever the end might bring. 

He wished, at the very least, the guards had not confiscated Juno’s necklace. Peter hadn’t realized just how much time he spent with his fingers knotted in that little strand of gold, clutched like a rosary and held up just to the level of his lips as if he were kissing a lover's hand. 

The necklace had been taken in their desperation to rid him of any chance for escape. Nureyev doubted they realized how little energy he had to leave. It wasn’t that he had given up, not exactly. His mind still reeled in search of escape plans and his eyes watched constantly for a mistake on the part of his guards. 

He was just so tired nowadays. A younger man would have kicked and screamed and perhaps managed to run before he could have been thrown in the cell in the first place. The voice in his head that would sound like his mentor until the day he died told him it was because he’d gone soft, opened himself up, and then gotten hurt because of it. His mentor always chastised him when his gaze lingered too long at beautiful people he passed on the street. 

Nureyev tried not to think of Juno for long, choking tears down and filing emotions away just as his mentor had instructed all those years ago. He spent a lot of time wishing the mentor he had killed could leave him alone in death. 

He would have preferred it if the guard who caught him attempting to kill the King had just sunk her spearhead into his chest instead of leaving him to pace and wait for the inevitable. Nureyev would have far preferred his mangled corpse displayed on a pike on the castle wall if it meant it was done with. Instead, he was forced to wait, attempting half-hearted conversations with guards who would not return his jibes or even bored flirtations. 

The execution couldn’t have been long away, for they hadn’t provided him with more than the occasional pitcher of water. Knowing the King, he would make this a public affair, so that the people of Nottingham might see their folk hero hang. Nureyev felt he barely deserved that title for that single act of selfishness that had been his death knell in the first place. 

The King wouldn’t want him to starve in jail. He doubted his death would be any less embarrassing than a body merely giving out of its own accord, but whatever it was, he was almost positive the King would want to be there. 

When that fateful morning came, the sun leaving painful spots in his eyes when he finally saw the sky beyond his prison cell, he had expected some kind of parade. However, the King seemed to have spared him the honor reserved for political enemies and those the masses would be less likely to free from any cage they might be carted through the streets in. 

Instead, with two swords pointed at him and ready to strike any moment, they allowed him a shoddy bath and the chance to do his hair one last time. He doubted the waves, worsened into curls by the humidity, would stay in place without any product, but he was far from caring. He did his hair because it was routine, and it was something that could not be taken away from him like his anonymity or his life. No tyrant could steal the way his hands ran alongside his head every single morning, in the exact same patterns and in front of the exact same vanity mirror. 

It was a kind of final dignity, and with a sword still pressed against his throat, he shook the hand of the guard who suggested he be allowed one last regular morning. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding hoarse. 

Nureyev merely nodded. 

They hadn’t bound his wrists tight when they left him in his cell, nor did they seem to care when he broke out of them, if only to return blood flow to his hands. However, when he had finished with his hair, they were bound mercilessly, and he could feel his fingertips going cold within minutes. The guard who had insisted he be treated like a human being on the morning of his death laid Juno’s necklace around his throat and did the clasp. 

“This is lovely,” she murmured. The other guard glared at her for speaking. 

“A gift from my lover,” Nureyev explained. 

“I didn’t expect you to have one.”

“He’s dead,” Peter said, choking as if in speaking those words, he had sealed the coffin lid himself. 

“Oh,” the guard returned. Beyond the numbness, Nureyev could hear an apology in her voice. “Recently?”

“It will always feel recent.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he sighed. “I suppose we’ll be together soon enough.”

Nureyev vaguely remembered hearing that the pace of one’s heart can adjust to a beat from loud enough music. He only wished the drums had picked a slower tune, for the thrumming in his chest was just high enough to cause discomfort, as if there were a panicked animal caught in the dark, cold cage of his chest cavity and it were scratching desperately to get out. 

That pounding in his chest felt wrong, somehow, as if it were a stranger’s heart betwixt his ribs. It was pathetic, almost laughably so. He had existed in a state of fog and ashes for weeks, perhaps longer at this point, and never once had the existence of his body been anything more than a staple of routine. Food existed so he might not be hungry and water existed if only to further evade thirst. It had seemed an infinity since he had been so aware of himself, and now, with only minutes left on this mortal coil, if the hangman was nice and quick, this stranger’s organ was thrumming with an insistence that refused to be ignored. It was as if in his last few moments, his heart was trying to make up for all those years he would miss. 

It was odd, to die at an age some might refer to as young when he had wasted so much of his life feeling particularly, irreversibly old. Perhaps merely the tragedy of it all made him feel as if his life had been cut short, though he pushed the thought aside. He didn’t have time for regrets. He didn’t have time for much of anything. 

He listened as they read his crimes, for there was nothing else to do. The King had ensured he was surrounded by guards on every side, and the gathered crowd, near-riotous, was being held back by what looked to be a unit of the army. The last thing Nureyev wanted to do was look at the King, on his elevated throne and platform with his advisors on either side. He knew fear had long-since crept into his expression, and he did not intend on giving the King the pleasure of seeing it. 

Instead, he kept his gaze downwards, fixed on the Earth and thoughts of what shallow grave he might be buried in when his neck was long broken and his limbs began to go stiff. He wondered if it might be near to Juno’s.

Vaguely, he remembered an evening that felt years ago, in which the pair of them had shared a bed. Juno fell asleep with his head on Nureyev’s chest, and Peter with his lips on Juno’s forehead and his fingers still rubbing little circles into his curls. Mere moments before that, he remembered asking if perhaps, they could just lay there together forever. 

He hoped their graves might be nearby so that they might do exactly that. 

“Any last words, Nureyev?” the executioner asked. The name seemed to ring out like a slap to the face. 

Peter swallowed. 

“Well?”

A sword poked him in the back, and he felt someone wrap the rope around his throat, right over where Juno’s necklace lay against his sweat-slick skin. 

“I suppose this is where I’m intended to say something inspiring to the people, isn’t it?” he began, surprised he had any voice to speak at all. 

“Get on with it,” the executioner growled. 

“Feel free to loot my corpse. It’s what I would have wanted.”

The drums grew louder before he could hear how the gathered crowd reacted, and with his stomach in a knot and his eyes squeezed shut, he forced his mind back to Juno so he might have one kind thought before he died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW! It'll get better tomorrow, I promise. Like just so much better. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to SMASH that kudos button and leave a comment down below or I'll break into your house and tell all your pets they're loved


	8. Somewhere Just Beyond My Reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Holding Out for a Hero because I'm a homosexual. By the way I mean the Shrek 2 cover. Obviously. 
> 
> This is functionally the last chapter, though there's gonna be a fluffy epilogue if you're into that kind of thing!
> 
> Content warnings for mentioned hanging/execution, mentioned death, canon-typical violence, mention of injury, mentioned weight loss, background rioting

Juno had spent a regrettable amount of time in Nottingham, in that he’d been born and raised there and never had the sense to move away. After all those years, he knew that at a time like this, the friendly baker would be closed, but the asshole baker would be open, and so if you wanted a loaf of bread, you should probably make it yourself. 

The asshole baker wasn’t open that afternoon. He wasn’t even standing around, pipe in hand and glare etched into his brow as if it were carved into unyielding wood. Juno didn’t know what he did standing outside his shop all day, but he assumed it was something along the lines of yelling slurs and kicking puppies. 

Juno almost missed his presence. Even in quaint, albeit unpleasant little towns, staples were staples.

What was more unnerving than the asshole baker being gone was the total lack of anyone else on the street, from the beggars asking for alms to the shoppers strolling past the market square. As the band of outlaws, Queens, their stolen horses, and company sidled its way down the cobblestone road, a chill slithered its way up Juno’s spine. The town was utterly empty. 

“Anyone else getting a bad feeling about this?” Juno asked, wincing as his voice echoed off a nearby tavern. 

“Jet’s contact with the priory in town has suggested there was a public execution today, and a rather important one at that,” Buddy explained. She sat upon her horse, a black mare, as if it were a throne, though not in the way the King held himself. Despite the trials of age and war, her spine sat straight and her eye sat trained on the road ahead. As much as Juno forced himself to dislike authority, he couldn’t help trusting her. There was a humble self assurance to the way her jaw set, as if she knew exactly what power she held, and unlike the King, she was not bored of it. 

“What’s he in for?” Juno asked, doing his best to keep the tremor in his voice at bay. 

“My contact did not say much, but did say that the man’s crimes were politically motivated. Therefore, freeing him as a distraction will be wholly justified,” Jet replied. 

“Weren’t you awake at the meeting, Steel?” Vespa growled from over his shoulder. 

“I would be if you’d just let me take a lower dose of my—“

“You wanna go into shock, Steel? ‘Cause that’s how you go into shock,” Vespa shot back. 

“We have an execution to stop, darlings,” Buddy cut in. “It would be wise of us to keep suspicion to a minimum, even if we believe we’re on our own.”

Begrudgingly, Juno shut up, choking down a retort or two and instead, focusing his gaze on the highest hill outside the palace gates. On most days, the hill was no more imposing than any other mound of soil, grass, and the occasional wild flower. However, with a military unit surrounding the base and the gallows stretching high above the apex of the hill, a steely air of authority laid itself across the ground like a thick layer of snow across a gravestone. 

If he squinted, he could make out six red and gold-clad guards atop the gallows, each in dress uniform, yet from the appearance of their spears, armed to the teeth. In the center, the prisoner stood with his head down, turned defiantly away from the King. 

The King himself was elevated, though on a different platform than the gallows. He sat as if watching a jousting match, flanked on either side by nobles and dressed in some of his finest. As the crew drew ever closer to that field outside the castle gates, Juno thought he could make out the King’s fingers drumming lazily along the edge of his throne, thoroughly bored by matters so trivial as life and death. Juno felt his still-healing wound ache at the memory of those jagged nails mere inches from his chest, separated only by the remaining shaft of the sword. 

“Are you sure he didn’t do anything too bad?” Rita fretted. “I know you said it was political, but just ‘cause he don’t like the King—er, Prince—don’t mean he’s on our side.”

“There wouldn’t be a crowd like that if it were just anybody,” Juno pointed out. 

“Exactly right, Juno. And the point is to publicly humiliate the Prince, rather than to stop the execution. That matter is merely for flair,” Buddy smiled. 

“And a distraction,” Vespa added. “So long as Steel remembers that part of the plan too.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it,” Juno waved her off. “Jet pulls the Friar card to get past the guards, you sneak in to free the prisoner, Rita and I sneak Buddy in through the back and she demands the asshole in the stupid hat give the stupid hat to her.”

“The ‘stupid hat’ looks better on me anyway,” Buddy mused, a chuckle on the edge of her voice. 

Juno wanted to laugh along, but there was something that stopped him, as if a physical hand had been laid on his chest as a wary warning. He’d seen his fair share of executions before. The King hadn’t ever been slow to hang, but the protocol was always the same. Two guards were stationed beside the executioner, and a few more guards were deployed around the base of the hill in case the watching masses were to riot. 

Something was distinctly wrong. He had never seen more than two guards, let alone six, not to mention what looked like an infantry unit. The King himself had seen fit not only to show up and watch this man die, but to bring half his court with him for the occasion.

He had a suspicion, but he feared even putting it into thought might open a door for it to be a possibility at all. Even if the intel was a few weeks old, Sikuliaq said the Nameless Thief was safe, probably returned to his home by the time Juno awoke in the Lighthouse. Besides, judging by the way he swordfought when just messing around and showing off, Juno doubted Nureyev’s skills were anything to sniff at. If anyone could make it a few weeks without getting caught, it was him. 

And still Juno’s stomach churned as he looked on at that strange scene, glistening in the midday light like a mirage on a long, dusty road. He could see hardly anything of the dark smudge whose neck now bore a rope, and yet every similarity, from his dark hair to his stature, rang out like the tolling of a funeral bell in Juno’s head. 

At the thought of Nureyev, the leather mask tied over his face felt a little heavier, sagging in grave fear for its former owner. Juno raised one hand to adjust it, as if that might clear his mind somehow. It didn’t.

The drums drew to a crescendo as the hill came ever closer into view, now seeming so close that Juno could see the sweat beading down the necks of the nobles as they sat draped in their heavy velvets in the summer heat. If he squinted, he could nearly make out the King’s ragged nails as they drummed in tandem with the snares. 

However, the scene atop the hill was nothing in comparison with the crowd that blocked the base, some stony faced and others riotous. A few turned when the band of riders drew near, but most remained matched in a battle of wills with the gathered soldiers, silently daring one another to either strike first or turn against their cause. 

Before Juno had the time to order the crowd part for him, the drumming went silent, and he heard a thousand hearts drop at once. 

Even with the distance between the foot of the hill and the executioner, his words cut through the silence like a knife. That knife hit Juno squarely in the chest. 

“Got any last words, Nureyev?”

Juno’s hand clapped over his mouth before he could let out a sound, though he knew, deep down, that anything he might have tried to say would have died unsaid. Calls of reassurance and explanations to his crew shriveled and rotted on his tongue, but the ashen shade of his face despite the blistering day was enough to tell them something was wrong. 

“Juno, is everything alright?” Buddy asked. Juno’s mouth remained agape underneath his hand and his gaze fixed on Peter Nureyev, the Nameless Thief, with his eyes still on the ground as he searched for one last thing to say before he died. 

“Mistah Steel?”

Juno swallowed, trying to force himself to move or think of some kind of harebrained plan that might, by some miracle, work. However, his muscles seemed intent on freezing him to the spot, as rigid as a freshly rotting corpse, festering under the oppressive heat. 

Nureyev said something to the guard, though Juno couldn’t make it out. When the only reaction to his words seemed to be impatience, he sighed, steeled himself, and addressed the crowd. 

“Feel free to loot my corpse,” he smiled. Even at a distance, Juno could see that it barely masked desperation. “It’s what I would have wanted.”

“Juno, wait!” someone who could have been anyone amongst his companions cried, and he even felt a hand that was definitely Vespa’s grasp at the back of his collar. 

He had ears for none of it. He couldn’t even hear the drums resuming their fatal march or the crowd and soldiers alike scattering as he rode forward. Though a shout of warning left his lips, he could not remember ordering the words to fall in line. It seemed to do the trick, however, and he felt no bodies crumple under the hooves of his steed. 

Juno wanted to call to Nureyev to give him some kind of inkling of who was behind the mask, but he found himself far too busy with the pair of guards who had readied their spears against him. He could not remember when he had drawn his sword, but with fear setting his veins alight, he cut through one shaft without issue and kicked before the guard could right himself from the sudden blow. The other guard fell soon after. 

“Get your sorry ass over here!” Vespa cried, her own blades drawn and blurred in combat with another few guards. 

It seemed in his panic, he had not realized that she followed after him, looking like some kind of feral forest creature with fire in her eyes and a sword in each hand. She moved with a grace he had never seen before, dodging around the spears of the guards and returning jabs and blows and kicks and parries like they were the steps to an elaborate dance she had long since memorized. 

If Juno weren’t so busy trying not to die, he would have been mesmerized. 

“What the hell did you think you were doing? We had a goddamned plan!” 

“I’ll explain after, I just—” Juno called back, breaking off to slam the hilt of his sword against the back of another guard’s head. “Little busy over here.”

Nureyev seemed to have been struck by lightning, his graceful resolution at his own death replaced by a dark snarl across his face. As he writhed, still restricted by the rope around his neck, Juno caught sight of his own necklace. He was forced to press down a wave of something all too soft and fond for their setting at the sight of it. 

Peter sunk his foot into the executioner’s stomach before Juno had time to so much as warn him of the attacker. The man bowled over without issue, and Juno couldn’t help but feel something in his chest flare with warmth and pride. Peter hadn’t been kidding when he boasted that he could do the impossible with his hands tied.

“You!” Nureyev called when he had time to catch his breath. 

“Which one?” Juno returned.

“The short one!”

“Which one?” Juno reiterated.

“Who the hell are you calling short?” Vespa yelled, punctuating her sentence by toppling over the final guard. 

“I was going to say ‘on your left,’ but I suppose it’s of no matter now,” Nureyev sighed. His lip curled at the sight of the guards all around, and Juno couldn’t help a breath of laughter at the fact that he looked at blacked-out foes the way he also regarded a loud fabric or incoherent outfit. 

When the last guard’s back hit the wooden stand of the gallows with a final thunk, Juno and Vespa shared a shaky glance in that eye of the hurricane before the soldiers turned on them as well. He almost smiled. 

“You came after me,” he noted. 

“Yeah. ‘Cause Buddy would’ve killed me if you died,” she shot back, just a little too quick. 

“You probably saved my life back there.”

“Your stitches took way too long for me to just let you die out there. Then all that would’ve been for nothing.”

“Sure,” Juno snorted. He finally dismounted onto the gallows to get a better look at the scene around. Buddy, Rita, and Jet were nowhere to be seen, which was likely the best possible outcome. The crowd had doubled their efforts against the soldiers, certain citizens even pushing back against their swords and shields. Juno felt his heart swell at the sight of it. 

“Don’t get too comfortable yet,” Vespa panted.

“Speaking of which,” Nureyev interjected. “Apologies for breaking up that lovely moment you two were having—”

“We weren’t having a moment,” Vespa snapped. 

“We were totally having a moment.”

“Shut up.”

“Well, that’s all fine and good,” Nureyev choked out once more. “But you see, I still have this rope around my neck, and it’s making my escape rather uncomfortable. If one of you could be obliged to remedy that, that would be quite nice.”

Vespa took care of the bindings at his wrists with a single flick of her sword’s tip. Nureyev let out a barely audible gasp, wrists rolling and cracking as he attempted to get blood back into his hands. 

When he was sure all sharp objects were out of the way, Juno sunk his sword into the rope above, and the thief crumpled. The sound of his knees against the wood sounded painful, but from those shuddering, gasping breaths and the hand already rubbing at his throat, he doubted that was the greatest of Nureyev’s concerns. 

“Citizens!” Buddy called from across the moor. Juno felt his jaw set when he saw she held her knife, a simple, brutally hewn weapon, up to the King’s throat. He looked more like an old man than ever with his sister towering over him, bright hair and armor blazing with the familial warmth of a hearthfire. In the presence of her light, he seemed to be festering before Juno’s very eyes. “Your Queen has returned home to rid you of this despot!”

Juno gave the stand one last quick glance to ensure Jet and Rita were in no immediate danger before falling to his knees at Nureyev’s side. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice hushed so Vespa might hear her wife speak still. 

“I’m not dead, if that’s what you mean,” Nureyev returned. When Juno raised a hand to inspect the bruises on his wrists, he pushed it away, his touch as light as the branches of a withering tree lilting in a gentle breeze. 

“Were they feeding you in there?” 

“No. I don’t see why it should matter,” Nureyev dismissed. “I’m alive now, and if you’re with the Queen, I expect she will pardon me.”

“You don’t look great, I was—”

“Why do you care?” Peter finally snapped. 

“Nureyev, I—” Juno began. 

“Don’t call me that. I didn’t want the world to know that name before I was nearly hanged under it. I don’t want the world to start calling me that now,” he started, though the strength of his words seemed to startle even him. He sighed, and deflated a little bit. “I’m sorry. I’ve had quite the week.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d say so,” Juno breathed. 

For a moment, he couldn’t think of the first thing to say, even if the obvious felt like the King’s sword in his chest all over again, obtrusive and agonizing and yet so difficult to get out. He found himself accidentally squeezing Nureyev’s fingers and was only knocked into reality once more when they were ripped away. 

“God, and to think I thought I might have a gentleman swing in on a beam of starlight and rescue me,” Peter snarled. 

“I’m not a gentleman,” Juno said. 

With nothing else to do, he withdrew his outstretched hand to the back of his head, and with trembling fingers, tugged at the knot. The mask stuck to his face in the early afternoon heat, and rather than falling away as he hoped, he instead had to pry the leather away from his eyes. 

“Juno,” Nureyev breathed, a hand already on Juno’s face and tracing the line pressed into it by the mask. 

“I’m right here,” he smiled. 

“You’re alive.” 

“Yep.”

“And I’m not dead?”

“You’re not dead,” Juno affirmed. 

Juno felt his feet leave the ground, only righted when he was long since buried in Nureyev’s vice grip of a hug. Buddy was still talking, somewhere a million miles away, but Juno could take in little more than the newly gaunt and newly heaving chest his head pressed into and the way one slender, trembling hand was playing with his hair, as if checking to make sure it was the same as he remembered. 

“Breathe,” Juno insisted. He felt Nureyev gasp and sputter into his shoulder, so Juno held him all the tighter.

They remained like that for a moment that could have stretched on for eternity. It seemed the world had reduced to that little space the pair of them inhabited, and for those seconds, in which the shining sun was jubilant, rather than oppressive, Juno felt as if a cold, dead thing that had been rotting in his chest all day had been, by some miracle, resurrected. 

Distantly, Juno thought he heard a cheer. He hadn’t doubted for a moment that Buddy’s words would dethrone the Prince, but the sound of the crowd confirmed it. 

“Juno,” Nureyev repeated, as if testing the word on his lips once more. When he raised his head, arms still around Juno’s waist, a nervous smile that would have never graced the face of the Nameless Thief played across his mouth. 

Juno didn’t have too much time to take in that smile before Nureyev kissed him, soft and slow and cruelly brief. He didn’t mind, however. With a kinder world on the horizon and a safe future laid out before them, they would have time for such things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahoo!!!!! It's been long enough these suckers deserve to be happy. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to SMASH that kudos button and leave a comment down below or I'll rampage through Far Far Away with a giant gingerbread man. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric !! I'm currently still doing free writing commissions, so feel free to contact me there or on my twitter @withane22


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a soft little epilogue for these fuckers. They deserve it. Only content warning is for one joking death threat

“If you bring up your engagement at my wedding, Steel, I’ll kill you myself, got it?” Vespa growled, pausing to spin Juno. He regretted letting her lead. She kept sending him in circles every single time he would have otherwise made a witty comeback. She was better than Nureyev, at least. When dancing a number he hadn’t studied, he spent half his time clutching to Juno like a lifeline and the other half standing on his toes. 

“Isn’t this technically your second wedding?” he retorted anyway. 

“Shut up.”

“Come on, you—”

“This is my wedding. I can tell you to shut up,” Vespa teased. When he raised an eyebrow, she sighed, and conceded. “Fine. Buddy said I can tell you to shut up.”

“There it is,” Juno snorted. 

“That doesn’t mean you get to be a dick, Steel.”

“Me? A dick? Never,” he returned flatly. 

“Don’t make me regret that surgery I did on your arm last week. That had to be the stupidest thing someone’s ever come in for in ages. How the hell did Ransom injure you during practice? You’re supposed to use blunted swords,” she sighed. 

“Hey, forgive a lady for getting a little enthusiastic when—”

“Battling his fiancé?”

“I was gonna say spending quality time with his partner, but that works too.”

Vespa rolled her eyes. 

“Bud,” she called to an equally dazzling vision in white. “Take Steel off my hands, would you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that for free, my darling. Would you trade him for Ransom?” Buddy beamed, managing to look like an angel while dragging Nureyev about the floor. Vespa groaned, though her distaste couldn’t stay on her face for long at the sight of her wife.

“Fine. I’m leading,” she snapped to Nureyev before he could get a word in edgewise. 

“Agreed,” he returned. 

Juno didn’t miss the way Nureyev just barely brushed his hand when Vespa and Buddy traded partners. He shot his fiance a grin, chest fluttering when he got a wink in response. 

He didn’t have to ask if Buddy was going to lead or not. She had already twirled Juno twice before he could so much as start casual conversation, wearing a knowing, and just barely teasing look all the while. 

“So a royal wedding, huh?” he finally breathed when she gave him a moment to rest and just sway with the music while a few couples away, their respective partners were trading death threats every time one of them tripped. Juno found it rather endearing. 

“I’m not always the type for spectacle, darling, but it’s quite the first impression on a people you haven’t ruled in a little over two decades,” she returned. “Besides, weddings are expensive. I was hoping to invest some of that tax wealth back into local artisans.”

“Fair point.”

“Why do you ask? Is there something, perhaps, weighing on you?” Buddy asked with a smile like she knew exactly what the answer was. 

“Vespa threatened to—”

“Vespa isn’t here right now. You can talk about your engagement if you want,” Buddy chuckled. 

“How do you make it all look so easy? I nearly had an aneurysm sending out invites, and you didn’t even let me help with yours,” he sighed. 

“Nobody ever knows what they’re doing, Juno,” she smiled, pausing to dip him. “Do you want to know the completely honest answer?”

“Humor me.”

“I make this all look so easy because I’ve done it all before, darling,” Buddy returned. “While our last wedding was just the two of us with Jet to officiate, there’s certainly less of an emotional burden when everything’s been done beforehand.”

“So you’re what, advising me to elope?” Juno snorted. 

“I’m advising you to do as you see fit. If there’s anyone who can handle wedding plans, I’m sure it’s the same lady who reformed the entire guard system, but don’t let my word be the end-all-be-all.”

“You’re the Queen. Your whole job is being the end-all-be-all,” Juno joked. 

“On certain matters, yes. On the matter of my Captain of the Guard’s wedding, however, I’ve deemed that beyond my power. I’m hoping to leave a precedent for my successors,” she returned in kind. 

“Yeah, I really hope that doesn’t become a thing,” Juno couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m stressed enough already.”

“You’ll do fine, darling,” Buddy said, frowning as she heard a commotion that could only be Vespa and Nureyev attempting a minuet. 

“For once, I know this number. Must I follow?” Nureyev groaned. 

“Yep.”

“I suppose that’s our cue to rescue Ransom,” Buddy said warmly, waving down Vespa. 

“You alright?” Juno tried not to laugh as Nureyev, or rather, Ransom stumbled out of Vespa’s death grip and into his arms. 

“I’ve been better,” he murmured, sharing in Juno’s grin when his fiancée reached to brush a stray lock of hair out of his face. 

Vespa looked like she was about to make a jibe about Nureyev’s dancing skills, but Buddy had already waltzed her away, leaving the two of them to themselves. 

“May I have this dance?” Nureyev asked once he seemed to have caught his breath. 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Juno beamed, taking his arm and strolling out onto the floor. 

“You look quite dashing in that uniform, my love,” Peter mused. He sent Juno in a spin or two just to appreciate the red and gold of the Captain of the Guard’s dress uniform, which he had been unfortunately muscled into for the sake of tradition. 

“Glad someone here likes it,” Juno grumbled. 

“Of course,” Nureyev beamed. “I’m a hopeless romantic for a lady in uniform, my love.”

“Ransom—” Juno started to sigh, but Peter broke him off. 

“I’m not the sheriff here, darling. You can call me what you usually do,” Nureyev smiled. 

“You would be, if there was a uniform for the Sheriff of Nottingham,” Juno snorted. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“I’m engaged to you, Juno. I couldn’t be luckier,” Nureyev beamed, the soft candlelight all around seeming to flicker and pale in comparison to that lovely smile, glinting like sunlight off a dazzling lake. “And Buddy let me keep my other profession.”

“Just like Rita calls you. Chief Thief,” Juno teased. Nureyev’s expression soured. 

“I told you not to call it that. I much prefer Nameless—”

“Chief Thief,” Juno insisted. Nureyev’s sigh was as affectionate as it was exasperated. 

“Royally-endorsed criminal or not, it’s not funny.”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“You’re an idiot,” Nureyev smiled, giving Juno’s hand a little squeeze. 

“You love it.”

“I’m marrying you,” Nureyev said as if in speaking those words, he had just realized it for himself, for a heady grin spilled across his face. “Of course I love it. I love you.”

“You’d better be willing to put up with Juno Steel for the rest of your life, then,” Juno snorted. 

“No, I don’t think I will,” Peter mused. 

“What?”

“I’d much rather put up with Juno Nureyev-Steel instead,” he laughed. 

“And what’ll that make you? Nureyev-Steel? Steel-Nureyev?” Juno started. “Sheriff Peter Ransom-Steel?”

“That last one wasn’t half bad,” Nureyev considered. 

“Chief Thief Peter Ransom-Steel,” Juno teased.

“You’re insufferable.” 

“You’re welcome.”

“If I kiss you, will you be quiet?” Peter chuckled as he twirled Juno around. 

When Juno returned from the stratosphere, eyes fixed once more on the soft curve of his cheek and arms tight around his waist, he couldn’t think of another thing to say but yes. 

With Nureyev’s lips on his and one hand having slipped away to cup his face right below his good eye, Juno could have died in that position and died happy. However, the feeling of a wedding band against his cheek made a wave of fond warmth rise in his chest, and with a future stretching out a thousand miles ahead of him, there was nothing he would rather do than live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are y'all as soft as I am?? I'm so glad nobody's like. Actively dying anymore. 
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for reading!! Make sure to SMASH that kudos button and leave a comment down below or I'll boil your socks!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric , where I am still doing FREE (that's right, FREE) commissions of penumbra fics for anybody who wants one!! If you don't have tumblr, feel free to contact me in a comment or on my twitter @withane22 !!
> 
> Stay hydrated folks!

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo!! This was just. That one duel from The Princess Bride but make it gayer. I mean they're all bisexual in that movie who am I fuckign kidding but come ON
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to SMASH that kudos button and leave a comment down below or I'll threaten you to a homoerotic sword fight
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric !


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